Sprout
Long gone is the spring.
Mourning shrouds the earth.
The desolate sky offers no consolation
to the widow of the season past.
The brutal sun rises
like a heartless king,
flogging the earth
with its scorching rays.
Life crawls painfully
under the stifling dictates
of the incensed God.
The dry ears of the dead corn
stand defiant,
against the merciless sky
like a galley of brave soldiers.
The bubbly brook
gurgles no more,
an eerie silence
looms over the fields,
except for the relentless buzz
of the cicada
that refuse to accept
the harsh decree of fate.
Tossed and turned by the wind,
borne away from its tree,
a withered leaf drifts by,
spent of all its greens.
Wearing the brown of age and dust
it blows away,
out of sight.
But, from the cracking earth somewhere
sprouts a young seedling.
Struggling out of the unwieldy soil,
with an uncanny zest for life.
Pale, stunted
yet, stubbornly alive.
Alive!
With one desire burning in its heart,
to avenge the withered leaf
and the green field someday.
The cicada buzz on endlessly,
goading the seed, through all odds.
The brave corns
shall not die in vain!
Monsoon
This season of wanton abundance,
when the sensually yielding clouds
pour for no reason at all...
When the vapoured mist
veiling the window panes
sends mischievous messages
to the curious passersby...
Wonder, what steamy shadows
might be stirring inside.
The cuckoo goes on pleading deliriously,
'Love me... love me do!'
Wet orchards drip the nectar
of overripe fruits.
The fallen flowers breathe
irresistible fragrances into the air.
The drenched leaves bend over,
in coy submission,
and the rains pour...
The sun...
the moon... the stars...
hide behind the thick nimbus clouds...
lest the streaks of amorous want
show on their bashful countenance.
Days blur into hazy dusks...
Nights into mushy dawns...
like the inseparably mingled bodies
of two crazed lovers.
A strange hunger
benumbs the body,
a disturbing tautness tugs at the limbs...
it demands a forbidden cure...
Who shall quell this fire?
This unbearable pricking of thorns all over...
This sweet venom
flowing in the veins,
yearns for a potent nostrum...
Four Seasons
Spring, springs to life,
sprouting shrivelled seeds
out of their deathlike hiatus.
the greens do begin to give
an illusion of harmony.
But soon a riot of colours follows.
They vie with each other,
jostle for space...
It is a battle for survival,
even at the peak of plentitude.
A cruel sun
mows down the children of green,
the ones that the spring had birthed.
Life perishes
in the raging summer.
The thorny cacti cling to life
defying the fatal decree of heaven
Gods do not
expend mercy on innocents.
Autumn colours
a faraway land in blood,
the greens shall drown
in a crimson deluge.
Darkness descends early
the fall shall inexorably
ring in a blood bath.
Tread the woods warily,
lest the fallen rise again
and demand life once more.
In the land of auroras,
the cold hands of winter,
smother life
with grotesque calm.
A pall of serene death
descends quietly.
Blizzards of fine snow
powder the deceased.
Chandliers of frost
hang from limbs
frozen in rigor mortis.
Thus pass
the seasons four,
to begin
all over again!
Indeed!
There is no justice
in the merciful God's
Cruel world!
Antara Banerjee
Antara Banerjee is
best known for her two books, 'The Goddess in Flesh' and 'To be a Woman'.
Recipient of the prestigious Sanmarg Aparajita Award 2019 as a Young Achiever
for her contribution in the field of literature, she is Masters in Image and
Communication from Goldsmiths College, London and a graduate from the
Presidency College of Kolkata.
Apart from being a novelist,
she is also a poet in three languages. She writes verses in English, Bangla and
Hindi. In a language that is marked by boldness and passion at the same time,
she endeavours to transport her readers to a world that can only be described
in words, a world that is shrouded in charming intrigue. Because, words can
evoke imagination, that is constrained by nothing!