Treasure Island

Pradip Chattopadhyay

(28.01.1961 / Kolkata)

The Teaseller


From pieces of woodsticks
the tea seller makes a fire
in the night of summer,
people sip tea
as they merrily
talk politics.

When rises the first star of night
day flickers out in the earthen lamp
shadows dance in the oil's light
finds toil's pause a resting camp.

Wispy smokes fly from the kettle spout
outside the long night awaits day
sip the lips elixir of thirsty mouth
claypot's brew finds anew demons to slay.

Fires fly as fireflies dance around
stars find the earth below glowing hot
words dry empty minds dims sound
eyes crave for escape to dream's cot.

The last cup winds up the day's cash
marks the night skylight in cricket clocks
weary hands beneath a tree throw the ash
time to count gathered amount in the tinbox.

Night then devours light's last post
his feet walk the soil of his years' trail
this lonesome hour he loves the most
when his wishes with the winds to the heavens sail.

Submitted: Monday, May 12, 2014
Edited: Monday, May 12, 2014

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