Saptadeepa Das Poet Free verse

The Field and the Farmer

Playful clouds that wander free,
Drifting light in careless glee,
I gather them in secret ways,
Soft as whispers, shy as haze.
Softly gathered in silent hands,
Carried from distant, unseen lands,
Tucked away without a sound,
In my shirt’s small pocket bound—
Handful by handful, I hold them near,
Like quiet hopes, like unshed tears.
If ever sorrow dims your eyes,
And a single teardrop tries to rise,
I’ll scatter them like tender seeds
On the lashes where your silence bleeds.
They will fall as gentle rain,
Softly washing hidden pain,
Tracing lines on a barren chest,
Where secret rivers lie at rest—
Etched by fingers, faint yet deep,
Where unspoken longings sleep.
There, within that silent field,
Where wounds are sown and truths concealed,
A crop of sorrow starts to grow,
Fed by all we never show.
Yet this harvest, wild and true,
Will belong to none but you—
No other hand shall claim a part,
For it blooms within your guarded heart.
And like a farmer bound to land,
I stand with time and patient hand,
Tending fields both seen, unseen—
Of love, of loss, of what has been.

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