Routine

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A nightingale laments

For the unresponsive rose,

While moths flock

To the candle flame,

Only to burn themselves.

 

Drowning my sorrow

Of life’s never-ending quest

In a bucket of chocolate ice cream,

I stare at the candle’s wick,

& become the yellow flame.

 

Withdrawing myself from myself,

Now orange, now yellow, now blue,

I flicker like the three-colored flame,

& melt slowly.

 

Sinking into my sofa

I write odes in the candlelight—

To my secrets,

To my fantasies,

To the old buckets of ice cream,

& to the lovelorn lovers.

 

All the while the nightingale sings

Inside my head in quick, rapid beats—

& the singing keeps going on & on—

Only to be silenced towards

The end of the poem.

 

Twitter @bibek_writes

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