AXES AND SHOVELS
Those are not my mine, deep scars on the face of destiny
Every verses be it satanic or holy –
A jewel adorably been close to my chest
In a feathered cup like my own breath.
While on the dusty way, when my shadow pursues me
And there in the midst of the thoroughfare
A gruesome moment awaits and thrashed upon
Breaks all the ties of a rope that swings the sally.
Those are not mine, bereft of wisdom and wine
Each spell cast a thunder be it fun or ruin-
A sublime path forces upwards, past the shroud of clouds
Beneath all eyes are shut -sleepy and in dream.
Before the vast expanse, when waves twirls forward
And every silent heart dips into, waits for an upward surge
The last foam dies alone miserably across the shore
Where warm sand snugs and beckons the venturous large.
Those are not my mine, votive tears that sprinkle down
A surface wet of salty waters, all the smiles run
Needles prick desperately in the charm
When illness and poverty makes a cruel fun.
At the onset of winter, the northern light shone
Every speck of blue, the clouds become unfamiliar
And the spirits go high, glides with the drifting birds
All our dear eyes, rages the cold glaciers.
Those are not mine, in the piles of dust and dirt
A pillow tattered entrails of which almost ripped apart
All the softness it carries lost in the beauty of mud
My memory rings awhile, I bow down my damn head.
If a storm raises, the dust of faraway lands
Be piled up and there in the distance, stands alone
A festival of silence, all my woes are gone
The incessant blows of shovel and axes surounds.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (AXES AND SHOVELS by amitav mazumdar )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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