Monday, September 14, 2009


The gray-black canvas
kept its promise
and hope wet our eyes
as another spell filled our parched hearts
with much needed bliss
The season of rains; when the dusty earth
rekindles its aroma
Does it lave away human trauma?
Dull colors above and the dampness under
A motor honk; an occasional thunder;
Drips; more drips
Fill puddles
And pools that mirrors
Our down-the-memory-lane trips
and help find answers..
As to why people grit teeth
yet try to smile
The weather seems fine as compared
to unperceivable guile
Shriveled thoughts precede corked speeches
of a murkier daily life
Hasty greetings and hurried farewells
lest things turn sore
And may explain why they fear strife
lest it lead them
to be marooned in the miseries of life
Dingy black alleyways and coal-smeared barrels
a half tarred road ;ditches; rails
All washed clean
For the heavens cry at the ordeal below
But we are better-off
We have seen wars and plagues and things in ruins
We’ve become... hollow
After a hard day
for another “gray-black” we pray
-Shibaji Ray
B.A.(Hons) History; I Year

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