My Poems Poem by Ajit Das

My poems are not sure as yet
about the mantle of a poet
I hesitate to wear so late in the day.

They are like drops, not hurled
from a fountain, but trickling
down the dry and pebbled bed
of a rivulet waiting for rain
to change its choked accent.

They smell sweat of burden
echoing strains of joy and pain
for missing, regaining the track
that leads into the sea
through the maze of desires.

My poems are lying unread
in a corner of book shops;
someday some curious eyes
may pick them up,
clearing the haze of doubt.