BY ROHAN MALLIK
I sit here with my broken luck,
A few broken dreams,
Broken hopes
And broken pots.
I say,
No Clay can seal
The cracks in my dreams—
But the pots?
The River runs dry, revealing
Clay, hardened,
Earth, burdened.
The Bushes by the Shore sway in the Wind,
Mocking my efforts
With their brittle Leaves—
But they fail, as I once did.
I molded the Clay,
The last the River offered,
Into pots of varied sizes and colors.
Yet they seemed incomplete,
Unable to compete
With my stubborn terracotta dreams.
I said,
I shall be better;
I may mold my Clay again
And again,
But not my dreams.
Then came the Wind
Toying with my pots,
Leaving a grave
Of insatiable desires.
I shall travel, I say,
To where the River once met the Ocean,
Where Clay lined the Soil in all its arrogance.
I shall travel, I say,
To fulfil my terracotta dreams.
I say,
I say,
And I say some more.
The Sun hears me speak
And so does the Moon.
Broken remains my luck,
My dreams,
My hopes
And my pots.
Now, no Clay can seal
The cracks in my pots.
No Wind to sway the Bushes,
For neither the Wind
Nor Bushes remain.
The Earth swallows the few dried Leaves
And cracks open, like my terracotta dreams.