The Story Of A Man Poem by RAJAT GHOSH

How beautiful it is to draw my childhood canvass
When there is no time through hardy work to pass.
How pleasurous the pleasures of my childhood joys
When I think them closing my deep drooping eyes.


Little was then I and as innocent as an angel airy,
Couldn't be tamed by none to be entangled tenderly,
Mother said me 'naughty', father scolded me as haughty,
The loving school teachers termed me merrily as mighty.


I had friends many, uncountable if I counted them ever,
I had power then to have a complete control them over,
I loved and liked these adored all perhaps with care,
But I knew there was one who would be my helpmate dear.


So she was mine, a beautiful angel, lovely little lily,
My garden of life was filled then by happy greenery,
Full was life then as full tide or full moon in nature,
Which was only ripen to meet the everlasting disaster.


Then once came the autumn when green became yellow decaying,
Offering her beautiful pure white cloth took her groaning,
Everlasting silence possessed painfully the every sour hour,
Cry, consolation, pain, pang-all in my brain did slowly shower.


We had a creation together, supremest thought I with hope,
Had I not preparations to make him a gentle-man with cope?
He became a gentleman enough to abandone me merrily here,
Since he freely chose to live lively without me over there.


I'm now alone like cursely-blessed Tithonus, waiting and waiting
For Death that never tries to make me soundly sleep by lulling.
My son, a supremely scholared social servant, serves over the sea,
I'm to wait here for his arrival after my five years' pleading plea.



He never comes, I know, since the working bullet had kissed his head,
A letter and minister came consoling me the loss of my sour shade.
Press, media, reporters-all were there to show the live-new-breaking news,
But was there anyone to report my melancholy life's black spotted hues?