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Existence

"Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it."
– Confucius

Time carves through me, a blade precise,
splitting the soul in swift, sharp slices.
Beliefs dissolve in apathetic mist;
I see ingratitude, a marvel that persists.
Nowhere, no one offers trust’s clear voice.

The vast hands of the Almighty stretch wide,
yet I find no refuge inside.
Corona's shadow veils horizons torn,
ruin hides where nature is reborn.
Mortality whispers in miraculous tones,
while youth is sold at spring’s damp stones.
Dreams, once sheltered by the moon’s embrace,
lie evicted, mistrust has razed their place.

Who speaks now of joy, of women, of friends?
Green grass weaves homes for insects instead.
The mind, consumed by vengeance's flame,
burns in Shravan’s crimson rain.
Love’s river runs through ashen streams;
the conscience falters, betrayed by dreams.

And still, I stand—modest, yet yearning,
with wearied heart and fire still burning.
An immortal hand rests on my shoulder;
I know—
Beyond these clouds, the sky is golden.


**Shravan- is a month of the Bengali calendar – mostly monsoon season.

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