by Atul Chandra Sarkar
A dream slipped out
Of the hands of the dying night,
Falling to pieces
On the floor of dawn
Aglisten with the first rays
Of the budding sun;
No splinter, yet pierced,
No wound, yet hurt,
A bruised self
Bled, anemic yellow;
Following the eyes
And heart-rending shrieks
Of the restless sparrow,
I saw slopped on the floor:
A yolk-stained foetus,
Injured by its fractured shell;
Without the next birthday
A stifled existence
Dumped in the dust-bin
Of social scoff,
In tearless bereavement
With a gnawing guilt.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Double Post Graduate in Philosophy and Sociology and LLB degree-holder, a Gold Medalist from Canning College, University of Lucknow, U.P. India. Presently engaged as Advisor (Industrial Relations) and Public Information Officer (Corporate) at Uttar Pradesh Rajya Vidyut Utpadan Nigam Ltd., Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, India and is a Guest Faculty at Electricity Training Institute, Sarojini Nagar, Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh on the Right to Information Act, 2005. An Advocate registered with the Bar Council. Articles, poems and short stories have been published in popular National dailies like Pioneer, Northern India Patrika, Times of India, Campus Verse, Shaktivani, etc. A Blogger at Times of India's speakingtree and having a flair for oil painting. A democratic, liberal and humanist to the core.
Last updated March 20, 2015