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.
No Fathers’ Day card e’er failed to arrive,
Nor yet a sterile call on Mothers’ Day;
A family album on a lean day
Kept deserted memories still alive,
As did the once-in-a-blue-moon visits
That waned thinner as every season changed.
The Spartan flat, once modestly crowded,
Looked more spacious now than it ever was,