Harvest
The winter haze hangs on the meadow,
In the veiled sun the ghostly apparitions
Mourn the ritual of yet another day,
To smell the wet exudation of the grass,
To till the field praying for the sun!
Once a while moos pierce the silence
Joined by the clangs of the tiny bells
That adorns the creatures as mournful
As the ones goading them to move on!
They bellow when unable to take anymore,
Hoping for a miracle that would unburden
And bring a freedom only yearned in dreams!
But as ordained the pale orb grows bright.
God frantically pours his passion in the disc
Colors of which spill over in the firmament!
Blazes in another day of harvesting hopes.
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
