29 Aug 2011


Posted by Oblivion in Poetry | 7:06pm

it hasn't sopped raining
and damp is the earth
perched in the nest
of leaves and sticks
the bird flits its wet wings

the tiny drops drip
from her dark plaits
and the little girl
runs with her naked feet
to jump in the waters

quiet slithers and descends
into the dark vast woods
and yet you hear
as you strain the ear
the rustle of leaves

adrift is his stroll
on an endless road
as the step of his feet,
shielded in soaked boots,
belies a restless heart

unheard are the whispers
of the tears that flow
on her face, moist and fair
they hide not, though
the grief of the broken heart

stopping by the untaken road
with tears that won't show
a soul, too late, looks back
pining for her love
that could have been his

millions rush for home
as she, with only torn rags
outcast and homeless
looks into the skies
and prays for death

hearing for the first time
the rumble of monsoon
the baby, alarmed,
cries for the embrace
of its doting mother

sunk in the din of living
impelled to stop and ponder
the poet asks himself
"have you heard these sounds,
o poet, the sounds of life!"