Non-Sense Squirrel Of Time Poem by Rites Ghosh

Non-sense squirrel of time-
through zig-zag pathways
of brisk rhyme,
thoughtlessly runs-
or a hide and seek,
or his jingle gonna pick
enough, enough funs -
in this tossing world of excess,
he thinks loose and less,
he runs and runs,
in every cold and moist,
in showers and suns-
and grows old
till in histories nothing's told
and god dries him up-
he dies between twigs
like wind's last waste stuff-


the squirrels of me are
new gaits of the metropolis,
runs fine among hurried twigs
of sportive billboards-:
man's frosty beards, untamed horses,
or Boticelli's woman's fragrant breasts,
poetry of eunach's slim buttocks,
paradisal glasses that gives
you heavenly tastes of the unseen...

restless crowd of signs like waves
around me drown up paths
though they say tonight -
this march will salvage me,
when capital flows like spring wind
runners are slapped with dreams-

I am dozed and like fishes
in voluptuous streams fall asleep
with eyelids open...
or swoon under the sensuous
realm of modernity-

I cannot stop in the immense,
weak sqirrel though I am -
in my runs and breathless bumps
I see, I see, and all I see
how the modern Inc.God flaps my coat
and wins all of me.