Gift Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Words are transitory,
they do not stay with me.
Suddenly they rise
as if phantom stars in the sky,
radiation of the distant past
raising philosophical questions about life,
or like a few bubbles rising
from the depth of the ocean,
stirring the soul,
leaving me clueless what they mean.

Words must be written; else
they find an escape route
and leave soon after they are born.

Whether God exists or not,
is a question we all ask.
Such words that suddenly rise
and then fly away,
are God's gift to me:
sudden, warm, sincere, fleeting