The Eighth of August
As I ponder in front of the calendar of the wall,
Little can I believe, it will be five years this Fall!
As I reminisce that day, or hour,
With memories, not sweet but sour.
Remember, as I enter the room adorned by a dull glow,
Pushing through hundreds of crowd and moving slow,
The face laid calm and the body still,
Hidden in white cloth of an unknown mill,
As my eyes saw the solemn looks,
Tears gushed out like a wire off the hooks.
I still can’t forget the sight of those still eyes,
Can’t run anymore to say the last Bye’s.
No more smiles, or a laugh beneath the whisker,
No more rides or walks that could be brisker,
As I go home now, gone is the crowd
Or those huge wreaths, with flowers freshly ploughed.
There in a corner, on a table with lace,
I sit praying in front of the silent smiling face.
With fond remembrances from a loving daughter
This is a small “ODE TO A GREAT FATHER”.
Copyright © Rajyasree Biswas