By Arka Jyoti Roy
Once filled with comforting voices,
Abuzz with news and gossip;
Echoes of laughter boomed through
Along with ripples of hysteric giggles -
The familiar corridors now lie silent,
Eerie and empty as a dead man’s abode.
A wintry breeze blows past, whispering,
“Welcome… here rest the phantoms of those
You loved, and who loved you,” and I shiver.
Through the creaking door, I walk into a room
Of a time not quite distant, yet centuries past –
A bright room, the grave of my woe.
Several rows of desks were then rearranged,
Adjusted for friends to sit closer together:
The desks bearing many a secret shared by teenage girls,
Walls witnessing fleeting glances towards the boys,
Huddled in a corner, divided into groups,
Cheering on friends as two wrestled arms.
The room’s occupants now visit no longer,
Sucked into a faraway land of fearsome war,
Of marching feet and artillery fire
As determined troops fight their ways across.
Gone is the raucous bell, music to a tired student,
Signalling a break from tedious education.
A dewy mist in the early morning:
Settles over the grassy field –
Hiding behind the curtain stand tall
The trees that served as hiding spots
Of shrieking children, sprinting and animated;
As It finishes the count, now on the hunt.
The overflowing assembly hall:
Where boundless advice was imparted,
And so many memories were made…
The dancing crowd now dissipates like artificial fog,
That would disappear as dancers descend from a stage,
And I stand alone in a dark shrine, my reverence wavering.
The lights are dimmed, and outside
The sun reaches its journey's end,
That began at dawn in the bright east.
No voices ring through, absent
Is the patter of dispersing feet;
And a stifling silence prowls about.
A shrine of teenage fervour,
The grave of youthful wonder.
The birthplace of hope and love,
A pyre of familiarity.
The setting sun hides behind scarlet clouds,
And I restlessly remain in a shadowy court.