Ardent Does Call The Spring Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

The news came, weight as if of a dead stone,
Heavy upon my weary worried breast,
Though I half awaited the shocking phone,
The after-shocks were far still from modest.
My worries were for the unmapped morrows—
How to mute old memories from outrage,
How to soften my traumatised soul's woes,
Challenge it was turning off life's old page.

When spring ardent does call with bees and birds
As they say, life aught be lived as unfolds,
As sympathies can't go far, nor kind words,
Life has to look for alter fit for moulds,
And like a quench-less sandy desert land,
I readily picked up a helping hand.
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Sonnets | 11.07.11 |