As a lover of all things wild and beautiful, it makes me bleed within when I see the price that is being paid to develop our world, the cost of progress.
Here is my little presentation, a tribute to the most magnificent creature on earth.
Anandarup Dutta,
Still a dreamer.
(Image Credits: laafapete)
For a while, this space has not seen activity worth its while. That shall not happen any more. I present to you, a collection of poems, by yours truly. Please do share and repost, and spread the word!
Have a pleasant day, all.
Anandarup Dutta
Still a dreamer.
Soft gargles, splatters, trickles of rain;
A well maintained silence, a pall of gloom;
Wafting, chiming,
Ever present, serene- a darkened room.
Silent Passengers, in patient wait-
Staring, pondering;
With patient hearts, anticipating, never irate…
An assortment of beings-a dog,pig, a tree;
A station master, deep in slumber,
And merchants, talking shop- unafraid, free…
as equals, if not in position,in profession for sure
Talk Money, talk family, and distorted lore;
-a picture painted by humanity, a tainted picture
commonplace, yet, obscure…
And to the left of this everyday scene,
lies God’s creation, innocent and serene
A child- a mere quarter of a dozen winters old
Languishing in quiet repose-
Not one of rest, or of playful silence,
But a silence that screams- raw, unbridled, verbose!
For this is not a silence of rest,
Or one that a handicap would attest,
But one that can only exist, for being born..and named,
on the wrong list.
A list that entitles one to nothing but woe-
Poverty, hunger, despair… more.
A child, born to cruel fate;
Sunken eyes, parched lips, a beautiful face, gone to waste
Resting amongst a pile of dried leaves
Unmindful of flies picking at her bleeding knee
Or the filthy rags covering her body…
Or the half rotten fruit lying at her feet.
A mere child of three, but in experience- a century!
An orphan child,
Shrunken, abandoned on her ghastly throne
Hapless, listless, alone-
Unmindful of all manner of events and states
Staring ahead, a silence quieter than death!
Eyes that beg neither food, shelter, or home…
Nor love, or a sliver of livelong hope…
But invite Death, a Saviour!
For hope is a commodity she cannot afford,
And Happiness- a forsaken word!
So Death seems a welcome friend-
A Parent….an end!
And the picture painted around her survives-
Beautiful, but utterly grotesque!
As God’s beautiful work withers away-
Her heart beating funeral drums
Her empty eyes
Still staring…lighting Death’s way…
(based on a personal experience, at Kasara ghat…)
‘Neath a misty, drenched canopy;
Mildewed rays of an orange hew,
Like truants in attendance, shy and wary-
Looked around and peered meekly through.
And while the raindrops, still alive and fresh,
Teetered on the edge of the ravaged leaves-
Like tiny ants crawling through weft and mesh;
I wondered about what humanity grieves–
Faith and romance are but twisted lore;
And hope a dream until rudely awoken.
Praise and fame just a barren shore,
Twixt flaming streams of envy and hate unspoken.
It’d seem at every turn life’s chariot makes
Lie pits of promises – glibly uttered, never fulfilled;
Crevasses of lies with unbridled stakes
Gallons of deadly malice, with cruelty distilled.
Yet midst moanings of fear and roars of hateful rage;
Is heard a whisper true, bereft of sin
Of a nameless bearer, earning an honest wage.
Often unheard above the ungodly din.
The sun creeps forth now, like a healing purge;
Sketching out what the furious storm brought down
And from under the green, feathered dwellers emerge
Taking stock of all that upon which fate did frown.
Unmindful of future dangers that lurk,
They scatter into a raucous flurry;
Recasting, regrouping, reclaiming their work,
Fiercely resolute, unheeding of any worry.
And I, a man, with might of the mind;
Watch in awe, as if carved in stone
Amazed not by their toil nor the untiring grind
But the lack of hate, that I have borne.
Hate that I have felt perchance
At every step and turn of the chariot wheel;
Is absent utterly in their soulful dance
Even as from sudden devastation they reel.
And I wish my kind would gaze often;
Up, into this thicket of misty leaves.
Were such a storm to befall us, then-
We would all know why mankind grieves.
drunkeninkpot 