Etc8 Poem by shuvo chakraborty

In this radiant Sunday morn
To settle and unsettle,
To be done and undone
To born again or to die forever
Till the final sun downs for next dawn.
Arid air, charming bower and your resisting hands,
Still the feeling of remorse of our central years
Drowned in nowhere or in others land
And this thought creeps in to our drowsy heart
Which have no Monday or yesteryear.
Lame promises, sick voushafe, weak agreements,
All are now passions ever cradled foster child
Making restless each of us in game of chess.
Words pressed, words not pressed
A deep swing over our brooding face
King, queen, horses and ors
In each round slips, moves and tremble on autumn wind
Pointing towards the game started by us years back
In eternal mood, forever to touch our core
Foretelling the faith in waiting
That's our uncertain leaving of the unfinished sweet battle
Which we started in quite mettle in spring.
Shall we not play the game of chess?
Shall we call it a day?
Of course with deft silence, with better realization of lifes frolik temper
With hearts and souls in our little nest.