THE SHEPHERD

The shepherd is tending his flocks,
a stick in hand and shoulders bare.
He watches them from the rocks,
vigilant eyes and with utmost care.

They wander on pastures green,
and huddle together as one.
Out in the countryside so serene,
on sparkling water swims the swan.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

ONLY IF...

Only if in the turmoil of life,
would one stick to their roots.
When deadly storms cut like a knife,
as young buds spring into shoots.

Only if in the roads of the past,
would one find the memories sweet.
When deadly sorrows erase our last,
and the destined souls do meet.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

FROM HOTEL WINDOW

Back again almost in the crowd,
faces rapidly fleeting like ghosts.
Their looks nevertheless so proud,
in a strange city play like hosts.

Trams, cars and buses daily ply,
on the roads heated in the sun.
While far above the iron birds fly,
and behind the clouds we see none.

'Trrp', 'Trrp', echoes of falling rain,
musically on the tin window shed.
In grief, many tears flowed in vain,
while I sat on a white linen bed.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

ON HER PYRE

I have put her on sacred fire,
as she was resting on the pyre.
Before the flames devoured her,
I never felt she journeyed so far.

Touched and felt my mother dear,
who is far and yet felt so near.
I touched her - felt like ice,
yet in life her warmth was nice.

I called out to her many times,
thinking when she told nursery rhymes.
She was in slumber, put to rest,
I shook her to wake - I tried my best.

What stood between mother and me,
was fearsome and ill-fated destiny.
She was still resting on the pyre,
waiting for her son to put her on fire.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

LONELY CORNER

She was therein grim silence,
in a lonely world of her own.
She smiled, she cried and hence,
reaped the fruits she had sown.

She sobbed inwardly, silent tears,
drenched her soul, washed her fears.
What she lost thru' the ages,
is now found in her diary pages.

Endless nights she remained awake,
which she did for her son's sake.
Many sleepless nights taught her,
that there is none at mother's par.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

HAPPY ROBIN

In rains along the iron rail,
sat a robin wagging its tail.
A crow watched with curious mind,
sheltered under roof - a safe find.

The grey skies in backdrop stood,
the wet crow was in pensive mood.
But the robin was lively still,
grooming feathers after morning meal.

A child 'shooed' the crow away,
but the timid robin didn't sway.
Flickered its eyes, wagged its tail,
throwing drops of rain that fell.

Drops of water that filled a pail,
now bathed the robin wagging its tail.
Drops that fell from the iron rail,
made the robin happy, wagging its tail.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

SHE THOUGHT SO...

Like the dew she was here,
silent, sober with utmost care.
Many things she wanted to say,
which she kept for another day.

Some of them she often told,
and now etched in memoirs of gold.
Some she thought, some she wrote,
now in her diary stay as quote.

Of the thoughts that she have felt,
when before her 'Maker' she did knelt.
Such in her character was the art,
she remained a child always at heart.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

NOW NO MORE

She went away in distant realm,
far beyond the mystery clouds.
Throughout my life at the helm,
now playing in hidden shrouds.

The sun was always shiny then,
and even now brightly shines.
The breeze was cool during rain,
is silent now in tears and whines.

Prasenjit©1997-2012