Another Day
Spring is back with its unmistakeable intoxicants.
I stand, once again, by a road that leads to another day.
My mind hums ceaselessly, one day at a time....
A cobbler displays his craft on my shoes' ruins,
With funny looking tools.
Although I hear a cuckoo's call from a faraway corner
Of the masquerading morning,
I am yet to decide: how to embark on one more day.
Like the bird's cooing my uncertain voice reverberates.
And like the shoemaker, I resolve
To exhibit my talent by writing poetry of
Forgotten buds, a memoir.
Was it on a spring day
Man landed on the moon?
I cannot even remember the year of my
First malancholy kiss.
Everytime I try to recall the past,
A smokescreen obscures my retracing senses.
I grope blindly and stumble on punctuations
On faded pages of my gypsied verses.
This day too demands, like every other day, for
Another day out of my life, knowing very well
I am not equipped with authority of calling it
A day.
So, I begin this day with repairs and losses,
Taking grey steps on a blank recto folio of my biography,
Gazing at an undefined skyline.
With my illiterate fingertips imitating a pilgrimage,
On dislocated keys of a piano called - Autumn in Spring,
Which coughs out hoarse tunes, I fumble
With rememberances of evaporated seasons.
I see, some
Rain-soaked yards away,
A home for the aged with a skyblue gate, on which
It is written - you are never too old to have fun.
Copyright © Ibohal Kshetrimayum | Year Posted 2019
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