To hear the Shama’s call, to await Evenfall,

To find in Winter’s frost, the glow of good;

To see the youth in eld and faith in two hands held,

To find in badlands, huge expanse of wood;

I write when Hope intones to me its song;

 

Of a down-coming leaf, its last departing grief,

Of exhaustion within a constant rill;

Of ledges on a peak, that of Oread speak,

Of placidness in a distant windmill;

I write of senses in the weak and strong;

 

For love and care in tea, mother prepares for me

For affection’s abyss in father’s hushness;

For clothesline with Sarees, for our homegrown trees,

For in these common things, the gleam of plushness;

I write for the elegance of my home;

 

Whether beside a glen, or on a claggy fen,

Or with straight-beaked Willets in a seashore;

Whether temple or mosque, a floodplain or a bosk,

Or pellets of hailstone spread in galore;

I write of the beauty of where I roam;

 

Of love that is forsaken, of trust that has been shaken,

Of friends and kinspeople who did not part;

About the greeny titlings and of my dearest kitlings,

To whom I have given whole of my heart;

I write of the betrayer and the stayer;

 

On dread of thoughts unborn, all nighttime and all morn,

On dread of the known thoughts’ this very while,

Whether in solitude, my trembly soul reclude;

Or release with contentment and a smile;

I write for me a self-comforting prayer.

 

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.