What Ought To Have Been My Poem. Poem by Subrata Ray

Picture of thoughts of readable politics,
No slipshod of unfelt drudgery,
No tool to make fool a bull,
And winnowing the sweat-dropped -wages.

The aesthetic delight of spiritual-science,
Like the uncovered crack of a volcano,
The reconstruction of constructed conscience,
And the literature of my nomadic vagabond.

Meticulous image as distilled lake,
Where one sees his mask-less face,
And the effacing identity reflects the within,
The tale of Time hangs without name.
That ought to have been a fragment of my poem.

The schooling of the Truth,
Though upland relative in every phase,
Of vegetation , birds, animals and men,
Might have been the candle of my poem to wean.