Sunday, July 1, 2018




susurrus over the vast undulating grass
tumbling of water in the forest river at night
cackling of hilly meandering streams
flowing of molten lava down the ravine
spewing of ash;
volcanic eruption at unknown site
spread of forest fire with a strange beam
spreading rapidly with the wind,
desert storm changing the face of the sand dune
without notice;
rains and rains in the rain forest again
in the country sides and cities, rolling of water bodies;
seeds sprouting, trees growing and dying
again and again;
sibilation of nature’s shifting phase;
nature is at work without rest in every nook and corner
in every pore and cell, near and far;
time whispers in my ear
that with nature it flows with all its belonging
to the events forthcoming
while consciousness keeps its progress in everything
constantly rolling towards the future;
time whispers in my ear
that past never sits in its forlorn chair
but leaves its essence for assimilation;
time whispers in my ear
that the ethos of the bygone ages, their zeitgeist
can never be recovered by any strategist;
the world may be seen in the grain of sand
but the flow of sand is constant;
infinity may be guessed in the palm of hand
but it cannot be gripped by any standard;
time whispers in my ear
that everything passes on forever.


The days pass by
With the quivering Sun on the leaves
And the tinkling of the spoon in the cups
With many a domestic tale
Like the last farewell of the spring-
The days pass by with soft footfall.

Accepting the warm love heartily
From the one who came offering it silently,
With a huff of the lover who was
Refused many a time earlier
The days pass by like the far-going birds
Leaving me all alone.

Ever moving from moment to moment
From every point, time remains indivisible
Like the unending waves of the sea
With the quivering Sun on the leaves.
With many a domestic tale
The days pass by to come back again
With soft footfall.

The golden dust of the time remains
With the air, in the sky, with the breath,
Whether it’s me or whoever else that is,
It comes back among the golden ripe paddies
And the undulating grass.


Is it the shadow of a growing dark cloud
over the pond in a moonless night?
Is it the voiceless echo of a sound
flashed in the dark announcing the flight?
© Aju Mukhopadhyay, 2018


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