Gift The Silence Poem by shuvo chakraborty

Gift the silence a fair place,
Silence that may be broken out inward and outwards too.
Inward silence like some glacier ever melting
in our heart of hearts; percolates through our consenting smile
or in dissenting tears; mingle with words delicate or in murmuring wrath.
Words be spoken or hidden gathering upon our mind basement,
Spiralling towards our judging brain and some spill through our
visible mouth discreet or indiscreet; some loiter in our arteries
to be lost forever or to be lately adumbrated.
Words spoken like the constellation of evening stars come out slow and shy
with Cupid countenance and sometimes gushing out like volcanic eruption
when the heart shaken in sorrow or in anger; then after like river fed
with shower dried quite in minutes or hours and deft silence like ancient tower
grace the place vacuum after our noisy withdrawal; but some words never be lost forever
And hover in minds other or in the blowing air or in the room spacious.
These are the matter most on words inward wherein half drowned silence
getting seasoned in our feelings or flies with smoke in our day of judgement.
Outer words though of person but never be personal and are all together quite social
Running throughout the days, noon or night from highway to blind alley,
From rich palace to poor cottage or among labourers at evening corner to ladies chat.
These words are like unpolished and not shaven flies over our heads endless
And quite often clash with each other or fallen like Lucifer, beaten and condemned from Heaven.
Unlike the words inward they are not lost forever but being caught by some others
gather like scattered clouds of autumn and raining sporadic over our ears.
But who cares to know in these feast of dejected wolfs,
The very presence of underlying silence behind every words flying,
Which like atom if broken in wise hands will be found as million particles,
Like unseen dust in the air are roving forever in the distant universe.
If we lay bare before the full moon in the vast opening in winter night,
having with a sharp feelings and a hidden eye; will not
bats be seen roaming near the Queen moon with sparking joy in falling dews,
That invites us be too close to the passionate fold of chilling silence among hazy stars,
Which must have in each bosom with softest pain by Cupid archery
And bleeding silence triumphantly walks over our ancient blood,
Ere another Helen or Cleopatra born like a fresh rose in our hearts hidden vase.