Emptiness. By Ray Subrata Poem by Subrata Ray

Occult treasure house your book,
lays unread.
A letter or two I read, and find,
Their echoing.
As tidal light-year in my drought-
Turns pool.

Dry, wretched, aloof and waif,
With imitations’ accessories I am,
A name, a body, with title,
And drooping advantage in sense,
Hope-irony, and its estrange.

All those mirages turn to oasis,
With spirit sublime and greater hope,
When I feel the ringing of your steps,
As if the awakening of my own soul,
From my paralytic oblivion.

In desire’s consumption and ambition’s profile,
The slow death God-gifted days pass and pass by,
Empty I feel with with reason-bound misery’s tie,
And cry for my own weakness, that my will can’t rise high.