The Longing For The Last Line Poem by Dipankar Sadhukhan

I. The Gateway of Knowledge

Within these walls where youth and dreams collide,
I stand before the board's dark, dusty slate;
Through chalky mist the ancient currents glide,
To swing ajar the mind's mysterious gate.
I speak in tongues of far and storied lands,
Of foreign verbs and syntax carved in stone,
Yet reap the future from these restless hands—
A harvest from the seeds that I have sown.
For every lesson is a sacred spark
To light the paths where shadows used to creep;
To pilot wandering vessels through the dark
And wake the genius from its shallow sleep.
Though voices fade when ringing bells depart,
Their echoes find a temple in my heart.

II. The Bridge of Two Worlds

My right hand holds the weight of Albion's prose,
My left is stained by Bengal's silt and rain;
The English oak beside the banyan grows
To soothe the fever of an ancient pain.
I translate silence into rhythmic beat
And find the music in a foreign phrase,
While native melodies, so bittersweet,
Enchant the spirit through a golden haze.
No ocean parts the verses I compose,
For Truth is one, whatever mask it wears;
As fragrant as the petals of the rose,
It answers all our unforgotten prayers.
In shifting winds, I stand upon the pier:
A poet's soul, the bridge from There to Here.

III. Sacred Burden

To mold the clay before the kiln grows hot,
To carve a path where none have trod before—
Is this not, then, the master's humble lot:
To lead the seeker to the open door?
I chide the error, yet I prize the child;
I seek the spark beneath the stubborn mask.
Through storms of youth, so turbulent and wild,
I find the grace for my exacting task.
It is not merely facts that I bestow,
Nor cold equations etched upon the wall,
But empathy, to help the spirit grow,
And strength to rise whenever they may fall.
The chalk may break, the ink may surely dry,
But wisdom lives beneath the open sky.

IV. The Ganges' Silent Witness

Beside the school, the ancient river flows,
A silver witness to the fleeting day;
It sees the seeds of thought that labor sows
And sweeps the hollow, drifting dust away.
So too my life, a river wide and deep,
Reflects the stars in every passing line;
While restless cities sink into their sleep,
I watch the constellations' cold design.
The water speaks in murmurs soft and low
Of poets gone and voices yet to wake;
It teaches me to let the ego go
And write for Truth, and for the Spirit's sake.
The tide may turn, the seasons may depart,
But steady flows the river of the heart.

V. The Hunt for the Golden Deer

Not for the crown of gold or worldly fame,
I track the phantom through the forest deep;
The Golden Deer—I call it by its name—
While all the weary cities sink to sleep.
Across the page, the ink begins to flow
To snare the beauty that the blind ignore;
A fleeting light, a soft and radiant glow
That washes up upon the silent shore.
It leads me through the thickets of the mind
Where dreams and nightmares weave a tangled lace,
Until the fleeting Truth at last I find
And see the hidden glory of its face.
The hunt is long, the path is hard to see,
Yet in the chase, the spirit wanders free.

VI. The Alchemy of Two Tongues

A dual flame within my bosom burns,
One fed by Keats, the other by the Seer;
To each in turn my wandering spirit learns
To find the music that the soul can hear.
In English verse, I find the structured grace,
The marble pillars of a noble thought;
In Bengal's tongue, I find a mother's face
And all the magic that the heart has wrought.
I am the alchemist of phrase and sound
Who blends the nectar of two different lands,
Until a common harmony is found
Within the hollow of my reaching hands.
Though languages may differ in their tone,
The ache of Love is universally known.

VII. The Bower of Love

In gardens where the thorns of hatred grow,
I plant a grove where only grace may bloom;
Where soft and healing waters gently flow
To chase away the shadows of the gloom.
I call this place the Bower of Love divine,
A sanctuary for the tired soul,
Where human hearts and sacred stars align
To make the broken spirit brave and whole.
No anger enters through these leafy gates,
No bitter word can mar the silence here;
For here the patient lamp of mercy waits
To dry the salt of every falling tear.
In this retreat, the spirit finds release
Within the quiet architecture of peace.

VIII. The Nightmare's Passing Shadow

I've walked through valleys where the shadows lie,
Where dreams and nightmares wage an inner strife;
Beneath a heavy and a leaden sky,
I've searched for meaning in the maze of life.
But even in the darkest, coldest hour,
When hope is but a flicker in the gale,
The poet's word retains a secret power
To pierce the thickness of the heavy veil.
For every sorrow is a passing cloud,
A temporary blot upon the sun;
Though grief may wrap the spirit in a shroud,
The battle for the light is never done.
I write to turn the darkness into dawn
And find the strength to keep on moving on.

IX. The Name of Divinity

I sought the Truth in temples made of stone,
In dusty scrolls and rituals of old;
But found it in the heart, and there alone,
In stories that the simple life has told.
I gave this light a name: Divinity—
A love that asks for nothing in return;
A vast and shoreless, blue infinity
For which the lonely poets always yearn.
It is the breath that moves the summer leaf,
The strength that carries us through winter's gale,
The quiet joy that triumphs over grief,
The light that shines behind the earthly veil.
Beyond the reach of mortal time and space,
I see the world reflected in its grace.

X. The Mirror of My Soul

I look within the mirror of my art
To see the man I was and meant to be;
To find the hidden chambers of the heart
And set the captive bird of passion free.
It is a world of Beauty and of Truth
Where time is halted by a rhythmic line;
Where I reclaim the fire of my youth
And make the ordinary seem divine.
No longer bound by what the world demands,
I stand alone upon the silent height
With nothing but my verses in my hands
To face the vastness of the coming night.
The mirror shows a soul that dares to dream—
A steady ripple in the cosmic stream.

XI. My Own World

The school is still, the corridors are wide,
The evening sun descends in crimson fire;
I lay the burdens of the day aside
To tune the strings of my internal lyre.
This is My Own World, secret and serene,
Where grammar yields to passion's wilder law;
Where things felt deeply, though they stay unseen,
Fill up the spirit with a sacred awe.
I am Dipankar, weaver of the word,
A servant of the pen and of the light;
Whose quiet voice is finally being heard
Across the velvet stillness of the night.
Though life may fade as shadows longer grow,
In these few lines, the eternal fires glow.

XII. Eternity

The final bell has echoed through the hall;
The school is silent, and the birds are still.
I hear the voice of the Eternal call
Beyond the summit of the lonely hill.
I am the traveler, both the guide and guest,
Who found his heaven in a simple quill;
Who put his restless spirit to the test
And bent the stubborn language to his will.
My work remains when I am gone from sight,
A legacy of love and quiet grace;
A candle burning through the lonely night
To light the path for all the human race.
The poem ends; the poet takes his rest
Within the bower where the soul is blessed.

By Dipankar Sadhukhan
Kolkata, India
Copyrights@January22,2026.