Ankur Shrivastava (19th March 1989 / India)

He hangs around the same river,
Still tosses a pebble,
And looks for the ripples,

Now they die rather quickly.

He has always been a loner,
And the river was a friend,
But rivers have a habbit,
Of moving on and on,

He has been left behind.

He wont take the bridge,
He loves his side of the river,
They call him from there,

And he calls the river.

There is a twist in the way of river,
That lives a twisted trail,
It forms a knot,

He is unable to dissolve.

He stares at the river,
Indifferent mass of water,
That has wickedly changed its color,

No longer transparent.

As the sun kisses the sky,
He wakes up again,
He turns to the river
To see his forgotten face,
But river wears a bloody red today,
And his reflection is lost.

The agony of being forgotten