Mirror of Time - an anthology of poems
by Gautam Maitra
BUDHU
The folks call him insane, Budhu knows not what's sane,
Strolling in
his own lane.
And when the evening comes and the
gossip mills start churning,
He sits there at his desk, his eyes transfixed on the pink sky
That the sun seems to be burning.
The song of sparrows, the dances of mynas
Hold his heart more than his
Paycheck due nigh the month-end.
And when the sweet-faced devils of
the office arrive with their silver tongues
And hidden agendas for bosses too
blinded by faint appraise,
Budhu has lost himself in the
eternal questions of life and the Universe.
Stranded on a lonely Island
surrounded by an eternal sea of thoughts and
Musings and questions and
feelings. Pristine beaches of the sands of truth,
Where waves upon waves of ideas
crash. They crash and smash, questions
Surfing on the back of more
questions. They come in the balls of gas the stars
Hold like glittering pearls a
zillion miles away. They hide in the darkest of
Clouds, floating across the sunlit
sky on the brightest of days.
The giant tides of history that bring about the
Smallest bits of the
past with
Them, pasts forgotten eons ago;
And as the smallest fractions of
time expand and blow up to form eternities
Uncountable, unfathomable the body
shrinks and rots, the spirit callow and we
Become only a grain of sand, one
is all and all is one, a grain of sand
Surrounded by an endless sea of
thoughts and feelings, of nights and dawns.
And Budhu loses himself.
Budhu loses himself.
Loses his sense of self in the unthinkable vastness of the Universe's shelf.
A mere shell with no shape, no
form, no quirks, no norms, no doubts,
No harms, no desires, no envy, no ambitions, no qualms.
A timeless island where the past
and the futures are one and the same.
All is one and one is all.
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