Whose Mind Is It? Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Every morning —
a new world,
a new environment,
a little unknown,
a little transformed.

The same butterfly does not visit the garden.
The tilt of the flower is never the same.
The grass looks pale or green —
whose mind is it? The grass's or mine?

The leaves look darker.
Perhaps it is my eyes that choose the dark over brightness.

Today's news is different from yesterday's.
Instead of early resolution,
they vow a long haul —
without saying how long.

What if the length of life
were specified for each of us?
Would the fury be less then?

I do not know.

The limits of knowledge
do not reach the tip of the grass —
yet the city burns
in unkempt pride.