‎a Kingdom Without Peace ‎(My Truant Pen) Poem by Prabir Gayen

‎A Kingdom Without Peace
‎(My Truant Pen)
‎ Prabir Gayen
‎
‎
‎ My pen stands still in search of mating words,
‎Directionless before the burden of rhyme;
‎For poetry is the mingled song of life and death,
‎A hymn that celebrates both joy and sorrow alike.
‎ What shall I utter of the age through which I move?
‎Shall I rejoice to find a wounded land at peace?
‎
‎Shall I sing because weary hearts at last
‎Have found relief from years of restless misrule?
‎ What shall I say of the triumph of common souls
‎Who voiced their will and raised a ruler anew,
‎Believing that a gentler dawn might rise
‎Above the long eclipse of fear and grief?
‎
‎The people cast their mandate like a shield,
‎To guard their children and generations yet unborn
‎From violence and the hands of lawless men;
‎And now West Bengal breathes a calmer air.
‎
‎ Men and women spoke through ballots unafraid,
‎And won a battle after years of anarchy;
‎Many believed their homes and faith were saved
‎From terror, hatred, and the shadow of death.
‎
‎ Now serene winds wander with fragrant breath,
‎Like morning muses crossing silent fields;
‎Birds awaken in the cloudless sky,
‎Their trembling songs adorning the blue.
‎ The heavens themselves appear content tonight,
‎After the long unrest of broken sleep;
‎Nature stands in meditative silence,
‎As though peace has descended upon her breast.
‎
‎ New hope now lifts its face across the state,
‎And younger minds begin again to dream;
‎Fresh aspirations rise like hidden springs
‎Within once-fearful hearts of Bengal's soil.
‎ The dark and anti-social powers retreat,
‎Hiding like faint stars beneath the blaze of day;
‎And tender hope, in quiet inward gardens,
‎Begins to blossom in the minds of youth.
‎
‎ Yet still my wondering spirit falters on,
‎My pen unable to discover perfect lines;
‎Shall I celebrate the victory of the masses,
‎Or teach the lessons sleeping within history?
‎ Shall I remember that terrible year of 1946,
‎When countless sons and daughters perished,
‎When mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters alike
‎Were slaughtered in the madness of division?
‎
‎ Shall I draw from Nature's unseen womb
‎Words to awaken my Hindu brothers and sisters,
‎To ask them to remain vigilant and united,
‎So that history may never return in blood?
‎ My pen grows turbulent in its search for truth
‎Whenever I behold Mamata Banerjee,
‎Once Chief Minister of West Bengal,
‎Now standing amid the ruins of defeat.
‎
‎People cry "thief" within the crowded streets,
‎And call her architect of lawlessness and grief;
‎Many accuse her of unbearable corruption,
‎Of wounds inflicted on the lives of common men.
‎
‎ They say she shattered peace across the land,
‎And turned Bengal into a house of fear;
‎That countless innocents suffered in silence
‎Beneath the burden of frustration and despair.
‎ Many desired to cast her from the throne,
‎Believing she governed for a single community;
‎And when she spoke of violence after victory,
‎Fear itself erupted like a hidden volcano.
‎
‎ At last she fell beneath the people's judgment,
‎And kissed the dust of mortal power;
‎Yet in this newly peaceful atmosphere
‎Another feeling enters quietly into my soul.
‎ For when I see her, seventy-two years old,
‎Humiliated before the multitude,
‎Mocked by voices rising from every side,
‎My triumph suddenly becomes uncertain.
‎
‎ I see not merely a defeated ruler,
‎But an aging woman burdened with unspoken pain,
‎Her weary face carrying the dust of years,
‎Her silence heavier than accusation itself.
‎
‎Does she deserve such a bitter farewell?
‎Perhaps she does — or perhaps far more awaits;
‎Yet even so, compassion stirs within me,
‎And my joy stands divided against itself.
‎
‎For in her fallen figure I behold at last
‎Another shadow of King Lear,
‎Not crowned with tragic majesty,
‎But broken beneath the weight of history.
‎
‎@Prabir Gayen
‎15/05/26/6: 22 AM.
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