The Life of a Dove, a Grasshopper, Never Met a Human Life

The infatuation of a poem is a lot Like a high fever The pain of a lost aspiring dream Just like the touch of a thornbush, Somewhere...only somewhere lies the destiny, No time to understand, No urge to interact... Everyone is running, rushing, In tune with the hands of the clock. Ticking from the house of the dead. Some days at this time, I think, About a long long story of scripture Or, A tale of his non-ending dream The fairy tale truth of the story. A muffled whisper Speaks softly to the ear "Thinking of the city again? What will happen next? There’s a lot of trouble in the city!" I hear half of it, Half of it is drowned in the noise of life He comes again He comes again smiling Again he comes in a daze He comes again With unspoken compassion... Jibanananda's page of poem pondered in silence The life of a dove, a grasshopper, never met a human life.