Monday, June 1, 2015

Man of a thousand miseries

The dim bulb that hung overhead
Sparked and went off
Is it dead? The soul is!
They call him a man of thousand miseries.
Brown coat, not washed, eyes
Burdened with liquid memories.
Is it dead? The soul is!
Days indifferent to him, for the news repeat
Nothing to smile, No one to defeat.
They call him a man of thousand miseries.

He stood by the edge,
Could he hear her voice?
Turned back, to find no one,
Did she smile?
He turned around again
To see the distant floor
He was alive, just to see once, her smile
And they called him a Man of thousand miseries.

He sensed the beep, wished
To be remembered again
And slipped on his way towards eternity,
There went with silence
Man of thousand miseries.



©Chandrajit Mitra