DEATH 10 : SONNET 17

I've died many times but each time I've fallen,

Death has raised me with his immortal hand

And life's numberless deadly blows have spun

To fun by the touch of his magic wand.

The thought of death does resurrect my corpse,

Inspirit my soul and inspire me to rise

And brave the life's relentless jagged course;

As I walk 'gain no pain, no tear, no bruise.

With death holding up a beacon over yonder,

I notice in that lighting all do perish

Under his feet - the evil, the good - forever

My being left with no bias or grudge to nourish...

And endure I my plights thus submitting

To death's absolute bearing on my whole being.

-- N P SAMAL

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I DO CRY : SONNET 59

I cry, I do cry breathless like a baby. You notice me or not but I do cry -- Whole drown'd in tears -- be it night or day it be -- No care if you find me absurd and wry. But I can't be unfair to cry, or vague If crying can protect me from strokes of death That nothing else on earth can, though I beg With my bowl'd palms held heavenward in good faith. Yes, I do cry (Whoe’er on earth will not With the betrayer's dagger stabb'd in heart?), But know my tears will flow all through the drought And grow new plants of love ere life does part. Maybe to kill the fatal pain the heart bears, Come out generously life-giving tears. -- N. P. SAMAL

TELL ME NOT

Tell Me Not Tell me not I was once a lad; An open sky that I once had, That offered me untold delight And lit my spirit day and night. Remind me not the days and nights That told me tales and flew my kites; Many a game that I did play With heart and soul unleashed and gay. Jog not my memory I once sailed Alone for miles and there beheld On either side, along the inlet, Many a willow and flowery thicket. Bring me not back the rights all lost, All things that came by free of cost; Affection, love, all poured on me, Even when I was wilful, naughty. I'm in my time, leave me to suffer From weakness, bloating, bugs, whatever: Let me be in my dying yard; But tell not I was once a lad. -- N P Samal

THE RETURN : RHYME 100

Infants gambol about their home With blooms and toys, But they return to mom's bosom For the real joys. Children frolic about the streams, In meads and hedges, But to their home they return for Their real flowerage. Youths do rush about crazy for World's whole treasure, But they return for real living To own life and career. Adults get sunk into the labour With dedication, But this's the return to raise well Their own children. The old trudge about the yard Of their nursing shed, But lastly they return for rest To their death bed. -- N. P. SAMAL

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