The Hawker Poem by Deb Panda

He is still strolling around –
Calling the “Hawker boy” –
When I have lost all company,
To my native grief and sorrow,
O’ my lord! You made me scant –
And buried a impure heart
With fire and turned holy –
With supremacy,
Like the sea passes over my chest.
You made my hands folded,
In owe and blessing I don’t deserve,
In dewy light, of the midnight moon,
And she broke with fold and tear.
It will welcome the angels of death,
Who’ll knock at the native doors –
With chants and devotion to the lord –
And will offer them-
to receive, highest esteem.
And they will go vanishing –
After their formal rituals,
When they paid tribute –
To holy grief here.
And in evening –
Wallets would be destroyed,
Not those bangles worth not,
For the scant, meager pain –
As those lying heartbeats,
Would reconcile.
They will not make hue and cry –
Kith and kin and the mother would not,
For she was the first tourist,
And they were the tourist –
After the world,
Like the cold waves touch my cheeks –
And draughts must come t my land,
Tears of lovers eyes would even dry.
But the tide crawls –
Like a happy little child,
Nets in the even happy blow –
And autumn will not bloom its magical springs,
Or she will appear with vanishing flash.