Socrates

Being a city-monk, I have walked enough. Enough I have wandered on the pied myna's foot in the pompous sun of electricity to look for art's food. In anger, grievance and pain, I have spitted much on the face of capitalism and imperialism. Uttering the name of humanity, I have passed many black days on the high way wet with blood. Singing of paper-flowers and stone-paradise, the cuckoo's throat in the long run has got tired. Now soil calls me. The coolness of intense green and the silence of unbounded blue call me. Two banks of the Kapatakkha river and the fig-trees standing on those banks call me for ever. I will go back to the soil where my fore-fathers are taking eternal rest.I will go back to the shade of trees, the fields of grass and the maddening perfume of Shefali flowers. A magpie whistles in the darkness-wrapped morning air sitting on the bough of horseradish tree. Drinking its whistle like hemlock, I, the Socrates of poetry, will lie for ever on the lap of eternity.