Home Poem by Soumili Karmakar

The candle of the cold wintry night
Spent her flame by burning, till melted wax froze memories of being transported to an ancient age of pasture.

The secluded bee felt betrayed by his family
And left his home in search of the efforts, that remained unrewarded in Nature.
His left home was exchanged by the country man for a score to a wax dealer.
The whole of the island was a home for him and for his fellows, until one day a carpenter decided to burn the ancient woods.
As the sickle hampered the delights of his peers the passing night,
He stood there, watching the destruction that beheld posterity.

Every little bee came back to the same branch of eternity,
As they were taught to call it and learnt their way back home.

Home; was a space of mirth and acceptance
Each one of them built it with devotion and patience,
None ever thought of crossing seas in search of an unfounded motherland,
As men with compasses and power were more prone to discover and name as they willed at hand.

Pity and grace, violence and grace;
Humanity, unquestionably balanced, traded and waged with these.
The long lost bee of the ancient times
Is still finding a home among us.
The demarcation between memory and contemplation
Conjoins to be an enterprise of universal struggle of life.

A life of counted days with uncountable experiences of predetermined sunsets.
A life of colours with the smell of wax,
To commemorate what the little bee lost to provide us with,
Is all we can thank for, and give an accountability to the unremembered bee
For his soul.