July 25, 2009


In monsoon, the haunting
of these desolate places—green and old:
the vegetative earth pure and cold—
Enforcing the heart to be dormant.
Let the moss grow on the pebbles,
Weed on the stones.
Those long traces of memories and forms
That melt in the mist.
Each little stone and pebble, content
And ready to resign itself
To this unprohibited growth.
Let there be no return from this end:
I give myself to you…
Come weed grow on me too!


Asitav said...

Its like all is done or all is lost. Its time for the weeds to suck all that is left.

atanu nath said...

yes... this picture was waiting for your old "pure" you...visioned this in the past... in your dreams... and here it is... may be not exactly... but this "pure" was for this "pure"...one...