The Banyan City

Rating: 5.0

To unearth the roots
of a banyan
is never easy.
Chop or hack. The old banyan
with the roots spread
over a century.

This aged city,
facing the withered glory,
now wrinkled, cracked,
weather-beaten,
with dim eyes,

has stood the time.
The heavy breath,

breathing. A river turns
into a gutter. There is humming
of vehicles. The city mumbles.

You grapple for meaning
in the traffic of noises.

The old banyan

is no more. You can no longer click
that tree at the crossroad, combing
the National Highway number eight
when you enter Vadodara.

The roots won't die.
You witness rebirth

in the mould of stone. A sculpted ghost.

READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Karen Sinclair 06 November 2012

Wonderful piece, the ancient struggling form bearing the scars of time and facing the busy throng of life...National Highway number eight.... brings this right into the present... as a red spot in a painting, words which stand out and make you return...tyvm karen

7 0 Reply