My Interventions Calling Our Journey Poem by Soumili Karmakar

A refreshing winter evening,
With the sunset, on its crest.
The church with its evening prayers.
Relatively, the mass gathering.
Candles with flames of light before Christ,
Held an in-depth picture,
At the bottom of my heart.
With moist cold air, and sweet breaths of youth,
Welcoming snowflakes, and wishing -
Merry Christmas.
A song, vividly heard before.
The chords, one playing on the grand piano, and the choir singing
Had a soothing effect on my conscience.
When I heeded peacefully,
I grasped my fingers back tight.
Deep in my soul,
I knew, I was inclining forward,
To an unplanned destination,
Which was awaiting under a Maple tree.
Fate - they called.
However, I opposed.
The mere journey was accompanied by distinct thoughts,
A solitary vision of how far I came.
An old coffee shop was discovered, the entrance was made abruptly.
A table was shot, a wooden chair withdrawn,
Through the glasses,
Observations were framed.
A child smiling with joy, while having hot chocolate, and playing with his friends caught up my mind.
A portrait was made,
But witnessed another.
A girl, who sat under a cherry tree.
Hardly, could make out her manoeuvres from a distant.
But gracefully, her cheeks were cherry itself, could be marked.
I saw her drawing a picture of the river beside, when I went out to seek for her sight, she took me down to the serene riverside.
The solitary chair,
Which I viewed from outside the cracked up glasses, looked pale and grey
But alive, and calm.
I wondered, stories are passed, and made every now and then,
If one ever glared at the wooden chair, one could feel, the chair's willingness to share so many different stories just by sitting inside in the warm.
This amused me, and I wanted to listen to stories.
The base of the chair was made by wood,
Which was long cut down by a hood.
Deceived, by the latter.
The weapon you may call.
Humans, they are known, but certainly acts of inhuman in them are seen.
Forgetting their base, that in dust they shall mix.
Pity, to know one cannot breathe,
Still woods are hoodwinked.
A rose tinted vase, on the table,
With wildflowers plucked, and placidly kept.
Took my breath for a moment,
Made me think of the woods precisely, where I saw fields of wildflowers swaying, admirably through the winds.
A deep runaway while facing the sun, took me towards the maple tree, where I saw leaves fallen,
Some dry, and some withered
But the gallant tree was standing firm,
Sorrows full of devoid,
Just like being defeated in a war,
Concealed tears,
A sheer grief, as you may call.
My diary lied on the ground,
A maple leaf was carried away inside the pages.
A chosen leaf was it,
A vision of courage,
Of falling, but unhiding truth of growing.
Though, dead, but beautiful.
A memory, you see, to keep one going.
Here, it all lies - the hope.
The golden destined place of reverence, will be remembered.
Kindness, is all we need
To make the world a better place to be.
Thus, my heart dances to an infinite beat,
And here we shall live forever young, with our good deeds.