Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 3, Number 2. November 2020. ISSN: 2581-7094
Palash
It is falgun
again , The month when Palash were in their plenty
And when
the village temple anticipates to be
adorned with the Palash.
Yes it was
beneath the Palash tree
Where I had
for the first time pushed by timidity to the threshold
Every
Tuesday at nine when the bell rings in
the temple
The breeze
conspires to shake a few flowers from the tree
an offering
to the goddess and to our love.
For seven falguns
the breeze has been dedicatedly rendering its part
In awakening the Palalsh from its nightly
slumber and to witness our meetings
Clandestine
though they are , but they have been divine, as divine as the Palash offered in
the temple
As divine as
the Palash with which he adorns my wet hairs
Every
Tuesday amid the breezing air of falgun.
When you
have the
Palash to
exchange, you hardly feel the need for words.
The silence
of the morning fragranced with the Palash cemented a bridge
That words
perhaps could never have done.
Today is the
eighth Falgun , the breeze blew again
The palash
crowded the ground beneath, adorning the alter for the love to blossom again
The bell
rang in the temple sharp at nine
We met again
I and Palash
My hands
tried to imitate his in putting the Palash into my hairs
But I failed
to re-animate his pace his delicacy
I failed to
respond his intensity
I collected
the Palash in the big green banana leaf
And walked
towards the temple
I have
been left to walk alone after the seven
falguns
With the
only eternal company of
The palash.