Wednesday, December 30, 2009

With Keats, a few moments

He looked much the same as he did
in his death-bed

the slender arms, the frail lips, the dreamy look
observed me,

while we sat silent on an archaic garden bench

Busy bees near fox-glove bells
and a nightingale-song kept us occupied

Finally, he breathed deep, heaved a sigh,
handed me a note and left :

O Humans, spend an afternoon under the bower
of a lusty Spring

Stroll down the verdant meadows, feel the fresh earth
beneath your stone-trodden feet

O Learned Ones, burn my poems if you must,
yet spare a thought for the grasshopper, feeding on forbs

Poetry hasn’t died, dear friends, only you have become
too hungry to perceive the thirst in a beggar’s eye

Let me belong to my little cottage amidst the stars

(c) Arunansu Banerjee 2009

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