Edina-18 Poem by shuvo chakraborty


Wherefrom have we come and where to go?
Can one tell us wherewithal both of us in such gigantic vacum!
No dearth of life in here and the flying voices or gossip enough
Or any lack of comforts and tinsels of high attraction and warm relations,
Nor of offering loves, compassion and slaying looks of passing fairies,
Still but this journey so suffocating and stuffy as if the steady withdrawal of air,
In the midst of feast of survival, grandeur joys and holy prayers.
Perhaps the genuine wind quite serene and fair that used to blow
In our childhood and adolescent through our hearts and souls
With clarevoyance music of creations mesmerizing and blazing,
Has quite withdrawn with bygone times which we hardly had marked
And slept with indifferent ears and loitered with callous senses
That never heard the ruing of mother Earth and felt her hidden tears
On the demise of jewel sons which once filled her breast full of pride.
Now the wind of creation that can only refill this vacum
Appears nowhere whether in grooming vegetation or in looming desert.
The music has gone, gone the angels of letters and the honest Ceaser
To cheer the shrinking snails overlapping the ancient tortoise.
What remain with us the legion of multiplying rats and dark roving bats
Tearing the universe apart like rogues in treasure island.
Our patience is on height of fortitude withstanding the downward deluge,
Trading of hearts, love and beauty have overstepped our social periphery,
Deads are put as gambling jockeys to garner whatever bucks in their final journey
And living are busy to conceal their drawbacks and wearing wigs in such tender ages!
Wealth and power acting like dungeon fire inviting the madding flies with human heads,
Those who are fit to be revered are languishing beneath of frost and fogs,
Thrones are ruled by the fugitives and imposters assuming all hypocratic gestures with perfection,
Knowledge are in dead end of dark alley and free thinking went to bed much before the night.
Men of letters have pawned their freedom to the jackals of wilderness,
Mediocre looking grotesque wearing the large trousers of eminent!
World is not world if properly present and knaves have upper hands in all discourses.
If the earth has a clear glimpse from another planet or star at close distance,
We will find it full of crisscrossing errors; of craters full with remorse.
Adiue my mother earth, enough is enough for the forlorn sense that still has rhyme
To compose a new symphony for just and order, new hopes and prayer for the depraved
And tune a new planet promising sitting over the remains of this vacum world.

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