Monday, May 1, 2017




Mantled and draped in bell-type raiment,
Heavy with the flamboyance of eternally,
Unruffled flowing falls and creases,
Achingly sculpted with masonry dexterity,
Ornate, opulent, and thought provoking,
Ah! Mourning Angel with your head down,
Speechless lips and half-open wings,
How long shall you stand with the epitaph,
Clasped to your breast in this grieving cemetery?
Where loitering shadows instill fear,
The divine eeriness of unknown shrouds,
The mind billows in the gust of thoughts,
Where the uncanny fragrance of blooms,
Make mourners look for escape beyond the fences,
Where autumn leaves slowly decay,
In the damp soil of shrubs inaudibly crying,
Under the trample of numb mourners;
Remove the moss from your wings,
Preen your feathers, enliven in solar splotches,
Filtering through the overhead luxuriant foliage,
The branches of which extend to hold,
One another in inseparable fraternity;
Pull off the weeds from your feet,
See its mud, only mud everywhere:
Of those interned before you came here,
The one under your unblinking vigilant eyes,
Those who shall come here tomorrow;
Under the quiet steps of decadent decades,
All of them shall decay to mud,
The elements shall return to their roots;
Oh! Charismatic Anguish,
Rhetoric of the Grim Truth
That mud shall be mud again,
You stir the conscience of man,
Hallucinated by terrestrial gains;
They understand your silent sermon,
Until their dead are embraced by Mother Earth;
Once they are outside the cemetery gate,
The bedazzling labyrinthine world ensnares them;
Whereas alone, you stand chipped and discolored,
Entrapped by stubborn roots of climbers,
Bearing all odds of changing seasons,
How long, say, for how long shall you stand thus?
Until a rude thunderstorm topples you,
Or until the fluttering pages of Revelation,
Ring in the horrors of Apocalypse?

Come along, come along,
Come along with me,
I heard the river sing a song,
Come along with me;
She washed her shores,
She bathed her banks,
She filled up pitchers,
She filled up tanks;
She shook the reeds,
She combed the weeds,
She bent the rushes,
Carried twigs and seeds;
She stirred boats and oars,
With boatmen shook hands,
She narrated stories,
Of strange, new lands;
She kissed the pebbles,
On her soft bed,
She took idols and flowers,
The living and dead;
From where did the river come,
Where did she go,
I cannot say,
I do not know;
Through rocks and hyacinths,
I just saw the river go,
Thought-provoking, amazing,
A lovely, pageant show;
I heard the river sing a song,
Come along with me,
The show of life must go on,
Come along with me.


I shall stretch out my hands,
From the dust of the storm,
I’ll shall reach out to you,
To make your winters warm.
If waves dare to drown me,
My hands shall beckon you,
It’s then that you’ll realize,
That like me, there are few.
If they opt to cremate me,
Even flames shall not shackle,
I shall call you on and on,
Until the last log’s last crackle.
If they bury me, my hands,
Shall emerge from the tomb,
The earth cannot hide me,
In the secrets of its womb.
If they cast my body,
For animals and birds to eat,
I’ll guard you like a dog,
And sing melodies sweet.
If my body is donated,
Surely, I shall incarnate,
‘Coz inside another body,
For you I shall wait.
What if my body is not found?
And am lost in some alien land,
Find me in the change of seasons,
Feel the touch of my hand.
Until you survive, I’ll exist,
So shall I continue to be,
True love is the eternal soul,
Not this clay toy ‘body’.


ATUL CHANDRA SARKAR: A double Post-Graduate and Legal Graduate from the University of Lucknow, U.P., India, Atul Chandra Sarkar is a Philosopher, Sociologist and Legalist. He has served in private and public enterprises, the last being Uttar Pradesh Power Corporation Ltd. where his last job was of Industrial Relations and Legal Advisor. Presently, he is a Faculty with one of Asia’s premier institution, Electricity Training Institute, Lucknow where he lectures on the Right to Information Act, 2005 and Industrial Laws. He has authored a voluminous commentary on the Right to Information Act, 2005.

Writing has been his passion ever since he started writing essays in school. He loves blogging and a good number of these can be read online in Speaking Tree of The Times of India. He loves writing short stories. Over a hundred plus of his poems, apart from quotations, are online and printed/e-books. Earlier, he used to contribute articles in daily newspapers and magazines.

Composing poems has been his obsession over the last forty years. He really adores writing poems, which comes to him as naturally and unexpectedly as a sudden shave cut or a thorn piercing a cuticle from somewhere.

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