Seasons Of Becoming Poem by nusrat jahan

I don’t want to grow, yet I am growing.
moans and groans of ache and desire pull me down,
and all grows on me as if I am some dead while living.
I had to part with my wishes, with happiness, with every little of me,
perhaps I have erased all those trails that would have compelled me to look back.
I am bemused with my own amazement, puzzled with my own riddles;
For I am a nondescript and growing seems to be the adamantine
despite my knowing.
What more could have happened if I ceased the journey for a while?
Had I became a part of someone else’s agony the pain would have lessened,
yet I chose to remain an onlooker and made myself a refrain.

I wonder about the seasons that I met and easily forgot,
seeds that I planted but never got the time to indulge their existence
while they wilted and rot.
Wish I had listened to those fading songs,
had treasured those torn strings of guitar,
only if I had looked back once and stopped to hear the beats,
then I might have defeated my nemesis.
such engrossed I was with the chores of my little dome,
never did I realize that it was my soul that was used up like a torn rag.
and so I missed the spring delirium.
The spring that has already gone and gone long;
and it is not going to come back.
Then what is left now?
Wish I could bring back the madness of spring once again!
Wish I could go back to greet the lost seasons once again!