Aniruddha Pathak Poems
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There Are Books And Books, But
A book loud and loose if not lusty,
Read and re-read to the last page,
Dog-eared oft gets but scarce dusty,
And dies of torn limbs ere her age!
While a tome beautifully bound,
Decorated wall-hanging wisdom
Like sword and armour of a kingdom,
Dies treasured a tall bookcase bound.
Or may long live not a page turned,
To die unread of ripe old age,
Or by next generation earned,
Yellowed, book-worms devoured in rage!
There’s a thing common— books or men,
But a few significant can.
Footprints Upon My Sands
Man as in poor image of God is made,
His footprints of acts scarce to my heart reach;
History may have recorded his work,
I need no such printed prints him to know.
I can hear and feel him walking ‘pon me;
Let me wait till that wave rises from sea
Erasing wrinkles off my body’s skin;
And if that tide, always a ready friend,
Whilst receding back to the heart of sea,