Prabhakar Sarma Neog

Freedom is my haritage
Gift of encestors my land my existence
My legecy.
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A gust of cool breeze
The song of an unknown bird
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Vuvuzela-
Crude and harsh
Anarchic
Drenched in passion-
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Mom, there is a man at our door
He wants to talk to you.
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Many roads are being built,
Days and nights fuse into each other, painting
obscurities of grey:
Leave clues of hue
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I spy
I spy your mind-
How much logic does it hold;
I spy your heart-
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If I could write that one poem
If I could imprison laugh and sorrow, riches and poverty, man-mind-earth and hope
If I could find that sorcer's stone
Could have plated with gold
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Beating of a melancholic drum on my tin roof
An ode to pain an sorrow of creation.
...