The paddy fields of my memory are parched
After the harvest of sorrows
The parrots of oblivion had gathered
The grains of dreams scattered here and there
And flew far away.
Though the sheaves of my remaining days
Are piled up for threshing
In the courtyard of solitude
My dear,
When you peck my mind
With the sharp tip of sickle
I draw mysterious pictures
By the blood oozing out,
From the quivering feet of wandering thoughts,
Along the arid land of life.

I’ve seen September, like an old woman,
Mornings afflicted with misty cataract
And evenings wrinkled and wearied,
Carrying overload of hay
Heading towards the barn.
She pauses at times,
Stares at me, trying in vain to recognize,
Mutters something in the breeze
And strolls away.

O my dear,
We had threshed together lots
Until the last grain falls
At cockcrow when the flickering flame
Of lantern begs to shut its eye a while.

Even when the incessantly lashing Monsoon
Soaked all our hope
We waited patiently to dry up everything
On a glorious morning of comfort and leisure.

Before the curtain falls
You abruptly wound up your role
And our children in their own stages
Also left me alone.

Still, why do you pierce my mind
With the sharp sickle tip?

(Published in Theatre Cloud and



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