Since he could not explain
What that perfect breeze meant
He kept mute — prevaricating.

The senses delighted
Confounding the sense
But the mind knew
How falter the senses
How stagnates the pond.

And he was afraid of blind alleys
Of the terror in the forest
Of himself —
No more than the fluttering of a leaf
On a windy day.

He could only imagine glasses
Frothing to the brim
And the concert halls
Or the t'te'-t'te under a rain cloud
And the fireside in a cosy hut.

He was well past those fancies though.
He had left them far behind
Upon the rim.
And since there never was a going back,
He could only look ahead
At the possibility of the next bus
To his destination.

The wayside flowers belonged
To another garden.

- CR Mittal

Recommend this article...