ANONYMOUS TERAI

In the tea gardens where tribals stay,

the young plants just have their say.

Come winter the grass turns brown

like an old king passing his crown.

When the breeze blows thru' the trees,

tender saplings sway as they please.

With the start of springly sober March;

the hope for new buds herein lurch.

The weeds are poisoned and trampled -

wilting leaves fall and are crumbled.

What is atop is so conveniently seen -

and that in darkness lies, none is keen.

Prasenjit©2022

GOOD OLD DAME

An old dame lived across the street;

to one and all she did smilingly greet.

A homeless though of seventy years -

none ever in her saw grief or tears.

Wrinkled skin, feeble hands, bright eyes

always took passersby in surprise.

She had less to eat and more to feed;

somewhere, someone noted her deed.

No roof overhead, no place to hide

but on Almighty's path she did abide.

The cracked path of cobbled stones

was witness to her pains and groans.

Fed birds from her meagre grains -

inspite of the heat or sultry rains.

The crow, the jay or the magpie

would fly down below from the high.

The puppies, the kittens got their share;

not in skin but in doings she was fair.

Tho' no more, people do visit the street,

an angel who to everyone did lovingly treat.

Prasenjit©2022

THE OLD MONK

Beside a small house, is a tall tree -

once was a sapling now grew so free.

An old monk looking through the grills;

prayer flags blowing like curtain frills.

A monastery below the mountain peaks,

where he fed so many hungry beaks.

He never knew from where he came;

found in a bin cast away by a dame.

What a lustful woman wilfully threw -

in a monk's house with love he grew.

With foster parents he grew up fine -

a runt, that so humanely did entwine.

The woman knew not what she lost -

leaving divinity to perish in frost.

Even an oyster does not give its pearl

as all around it does tightly curl.

Somewhere Almighty gave a frown -

in due time a holy soul got his crown.

Prasenjit©2022

A DREAM

I dreamt of having living a dream,

in one bright and sunny afternoon sun.

It was like a cloud with golden rim

and it was joy to behold and lots of fun.

When the clouds sail atop the hills -

the flying fog mildly touches my face.

I cannot say what it really feels

as it floats gaily with queenly grace.

Flowers of all shades bloomed in valley

and flocks of sheep grazed nearby.

The gurgling stream was like an alley

and sun beamed through the blue sky.

Prasenjit©2022