The day left in crimson haste,
And night gathered in hope of rest
Like a bird settling in its nest.
The Moslem atop his distant mosque
Like happy refrain of the day's song
Cried a last time to praise his Lord.
And a priest ending his worship's task
Did sound once his temple gong
That struck a note from a lonely chord.
A murmur broke among the trees
Who whispered softly to the breeze.
A far whistle of a passing train,
A few brief calls of a woken wren;
Then a wind ere it could die
Lifted my curtain up and high -
The sky slipped in quickly with a sigh
And left on my pillow a starry question!
This poem is dedicated to Jibanananda Das whose poems thrill me every time I read them.
1 comment:
I wonder how you answered that 'starry question'? Reading it several times, I felt that it can't be called a poem...but a painting with rich and vivid images, a painting which says everything which is ineffable, lifts a curtain from that which is invisible and whispers that which is unheard. You definitely have an innate capacity to weave images together to create a masterpiece. This piece fills the mind with an imperturbable composure.
Post a Comment