A fragile bird flying in the air
Between the smart smelling flowers;
Carried by the tender summer breeze,
Refreshed by the joy falling as showers.
In the background of a smiling sun
And a dancing small light cloud:
Other white birds chant with joy,
Where a white textile just found.
Underneath the birds a voice of piano
Where a young boy plays cheerfully:
So harmonious matching the delight,
So harmonious where he plays happily.
Behinds appears a pond so small
As blue as a summer day's sky.
Behold the naturally drew portrait,
Singing with pleasure shall be I.
I touch the flowers dressed in colors
Few moments before leaving the place;
My brain is still filled with the hope
That tomorrow I'll portray such a place.
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
