Poetry Of No Time. Poem by Subrata Ray

‘Mother' the first accented rime,
Holds poetry on your time.
Then the buried images find reflection,
With faces closer, sky, bird, flower.

The unconscious black board,
Displays and hoards, -
Sketches unnumbered of cosmic cart,
You temporal vase, reveal your art.

Back some years ten thousands,
What human poetry you would mend,
Save your abstract that reads death and life,
Your poetry itself is either a divine husband or wife.

We diverge and converge, as earth and black hole,
And our science as poetry recognizes geometric lines,
Ah! Poet, -the timeless prophet in you alone shines!