Song Of Futility Part 1 Poem by shuvo chakraborty

In this strange song of lifes sequences
What appears strangest is our birth and growth—
Here lies a babe, perhaps a girl or boy
Being encircled with parental reflecting joys
That dumb speak and rebound childish honk.
Parental joy, joy of a creation heaving memoirs of passion entangles
Like worm in dew drenched flower in autumn.
It is past and paled, no more pastoral encounters
Under moon or in sea shore or in snow clad hill.
Burning creation with heavy self assertion seeks the pie of righteous joys
At bitter cost of the creators, artist of gallow.
Future shifts like froggy spell from parents to child, hopping faggots
Leaving very little room to be Helen or Hercules.
Off spring grows and gaming in own pattern of various designs and decorums
With so many stages, starved thought creators self assign the role of spectators
But differs on muted enslavement till the last breath, like fall of oak.
Posterity commemorates their dull fragility
Perished forever on humming futility of cursed oblivion.
What remains neither wealth or vowels, but their mute presence in dusty portrait.