I Write Stories
Even now I write stories.
I weave them out of the mirages
of distant satiations.
In the dim corners of twilight
I string together a few ephemeral
shrubs and palm leaves.
And, when the vanishing pool
quenches my pulsating thirst,
when the rubbles of the trees
sway in my heart with derisive laughs,
I turn the hourglass over,
bury an oasis that never was
in the coarseness of sands;
with rejoice in feet I seek
new waters, new grass, and glimpses
of evergreen leaves.
My hopes have aged by now.
Their faces all wear wrinkles of wisdom.
Neglect and haggard futility have
callused their beautiful hands
and blunted their slender fingers.
But, time and again,
the desert breeze brings the faint aroma
of deep blue waters
silent and shimmering under horizons’ veil,
and my searching tongue, like a newborn child,
thrashes around, helpless,
for that water cold and sweet.
In every such rebirth, even now
I write my stories.
© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee
I Write Stories by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.