Last noon, your shade befell an elder's face; The coming night, it was full grey. You met this woman at her cherished place, A garden, where she spent the day Attending to each bright, unfurling bud. Espying her, you set the trap: A lung stroke (when she bent to pick the spud) Laid her upon that leaf-strewn lap. I've heard no luck can ransom you to flee Or dent your hauberk, tough as steel; All scriptures say you are that entity Who heeds no chant or strong appeal. One day you'll dim me too, but let that time Arrive when I'm deep in my care (Just like that gardener): papers, words, and rhyme, Oblivious that I'll leave them there.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India. Some of his recent publications include Spelt, Ink Sweat & Tears, St. Austin Review, Modern Reformation, San Antonio Review, Third Wednesday, and Amethyst Review among others.
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