My days tiptoed down the lonesome path of trail
you left in the hours of dusk, the twang of the
faraway guitar stopped a sudden, the tryst with you
was fixed by the sorrow, you smiled, like an empress.
I painted you, drew a love, an image thrown over the time.
You were there with lonesome days, feverish nights, sat on
lush soil, the night before you were with me in a coffee shop.
I was talking, meditating, dreaming with a poison in my blood.
A curious god came to my house and the bell is ringing
For whom the bell tolls? For whom the bell tolls?
The God is tired, he sang a song, God is dead on his feet.
Still he danced, spinning on his feet with a rhythm foretelling
future of numerous souls- they're seeking a nice niche to lie.
The god is wailing under a greenwood tree, liars who are
shouting in the parliaments did not see this God, a God
forlorn, a God whispering infinite tale, a God bleeding for
little fragile Man but you and me in the coffee shop, on
the lush green, on a paradise lost for ever had the quick
look of a dying God- for whom the bell tolls? For whom?
Aloke Mukherjee's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (My days by Aloke Mukherjee )
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