THE RHYTHM OF THE BUTTERFLY Contemporary Poetry Anthology by Santosh Kumar Biswa
A Tree asked me a Question In dejection, across the lonely jungle, As a dark cloud, I roved over to repose In a desultory manner, on a winding course, To find, where my melancholy could be concealed. Over the body, my pelt erected, eyes runoff, And my mind too rampant to abandon, When tout de suite I glanced a crowd Beneath an old tree, of pale Safaris, Dolorous and tearful in the gentle wind As though wanting to convey to me gloominess, Not of mine, but of their own agony. As an escort, I drew nigher to associate, But, the dropping tree above seemed doleful, Who asked me a query, so wakeless That varied my mind with wild mentation. He averred, "What measure I've, you know not, In solitude I live, few we are, the rest are gone And, mine is to remain forever not yours. You tend to be dire on what can be done, Maybe love or blood you are pensive of, That comes and goes, but which are not mine. 47
