Irony
Irony
“They do not come, as sweet as they used to, these days.”
Looking at the helpless fleshes of oranges
produced in green Darjeeling hills, the old man says.
A wind, which have once touched the peaks of north terrain,
sends a shiver down the trite spine. His relative
comes out on porch, glow bugs swarming; it is nighttime.
The crisscrossing bugs weave the scene akin to those
seen through childhood kaleidoscopes. It shakes his nerves
to return to technologies. The irony is,
inside, rests an old man; life supported by machines.
© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
Copyright © Kushal Poddar | Year Posted 2009
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