Monday, 9 January 2012

What they don't teach in language classes

A rose blooms over its thorn
And a dewdrop can hold the skies
I’ve read all that and I could have sworn
They’re inlaid into my eyes
Then why is hope suddenly forlorn
And my tissues feel like lies?

The migrants sing their normal tune
And I know it, every note.
The yearnings and the misfortune -
They’re layered inside  my throat
But still, a switch in an afternoon
Refuses to remix distraught.

The spiritual and the con
And I have seen them both
I’ve been the flame that burns on
And I’ve been the moth
But still, a sudden flare of dawn
Whispers something like an oath.

The thorns stay on after the rose
The poets never gave that a space.
The exiles sing, but some of those
Never find a home to embrace.
And they never said of hopes or woes
Which one’s easier to face.

2 comments:

  1. Daer Nilanjana,
    You are indeed very talented!! This poem is filled with deep emotions and tender love. Thanks for sharing it with us. Great job!!!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Dear Andy,

      It feels great to be appreciated! Thank you! :)

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