February Fourteenth


The black clouds near,

Rapidly rolling their convolutions.

A gust of wind bends the poplars,

& at once comes the rain,

Pattering down on winter leaves.

Puddles of water running over the gravel

Carry off a scattering of yellow leaves.


Everything seems wrapped

In a drifting darkness.

The weather sinks deep in my soul—

Somberly melancholic, numbly despairing—

I sit by the window,

& stare with brooding eyes.


Afterwards, the sun comes out,

Lightens my little room

Like a golden bed lamp, with soft touch,

& the sky turns white as porcelain again.

The ducks quack,

Sparrows shake their wings,

& once more it is warm.

The bedlam that broke awhile

Starts to cease, & now

Lulled by the brightness of the sun,

Smothered by it, I sink again

In a state of gloom,

Ruminating over my stark & bereft



Twitter @bibek_writes


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