By Soumi Bhowmick
The rose bed's been prepared;
I don't like red anymore.
They are calling me loud and clear ;
I don't like voices anymore.
The raindrops have hit the glass
The summer's gone I see;
Carcasses of leaves and twigs
Ablaze at the distant moonlit shore.
Halos and wings of silver
Etherized upon the blue melee ,
Albeit they can't hear ...
They notice one akin to gore .
I am sure they do ...
Or why else , thrash against itself?
The sand of gold
The waves of sapphire
Writing down an incessant lore .
Oh but the cold 's gotta go too
And he gotta come back ;
Well...
I don't like the vernal anymore .