I want to go back
to that place,
where we played hide and seek
for the last time.

I want to go there and lay my head over the lush green grass we passed by.
I want to feel the rain.
I want to sing the song
once we sang together.

I want to cry my heart open
for the bruised knees
that heals much faster than
a broken heart.

I want;
you and me
and our secrets back,
the sandcastles we made,
the smiles we adored.

I want to taste the last bite
of our summer holidays;
of mangoes and salt
we ate.

Years went by.
You left me there under the tamarind tree;
we used to swing and touch the sky.
I closed my eyes and breath;
Weeped for a beautiful childhood lost.
Then there a wind blewed;
the same wind that embraced me
years ago,
made the dry leaves fly under my feet. The wind;
kissed my cheeks and went in a hurry, whispering :

The time gone never comes again
The time gone never comes again..

πŸƒ

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I need love;
To grow, to survive.
To fill the void in me with
fragments of hope.
Complete, eternal, poetic it is;
To love. To be loved.

I am the muser.
So shall I thrive and bloom.
And paint my masterpiece with
White and red.
Some filtered. Some grained.

Love, unwithered;
is all I want.
To live, to soar.
For there is no falling into love.
It is this, the rising into love.
To infinity and beyond.

πŸŽΆπŸ’š

Take me to the other side of the ocean;
I will teach you to dive the enchanting waves;
To go deep down the sea,
to pursue the pearls of love.
Love in abundance.

Take me to the other side of the world.
For I shall teach you to unfurl it.(love)
To fill the whereabouts devoid of
life and light.

Take me with you where ever you depart.
Since, a birthmark on the earth is
who I am.
Sole. Solitary.
And single.
For love,
With a crave in the sinew.
To unearth
Its ecstasy anew..

πŸ’•

Where shall I lay my head
when thoughts get overflowed in them?
Where shall I bury my heart
When agonies get choked in them?

And I,
searched him everywhere;
found him nowhere.

For now, he had gone;
Gone past the mild breeze,
the yellow river,the violet flowers,
the sun and the moon.
No traces left.
No secrets untold.

I am now, a piece of poetry, undone
Waiting her author to get penned..
I am rather a withered leaf shattered and
fallen from a broken branch..

He left me ashore
Bare footed.
Where my words are
Deep rooted.
For now, he had gone;
Gone with the waves,
And I reckon, with all my heart;
One day he would come back, and
take me with him..
Because all I knew was
He loved me amidst everything.
Pure and Warm.

❀

The lost art of public reading πŸ“–

When was the last time you read a book under the shades of a tree,in a public park or a moving train!!?

The question seems to be little pretentious to some of us but a gang of book robbers can easily associate with this.The scene of someone holding a book in his arm and reading in a public place wheather in buses, metros and planes is too hard to see. Nobody’s reading a book.

Last day when I was going through a morning daily I noticed an article by Mr.Saikat Majumbar, (a leading writer) titled “The lost art of public reading.” The write-up says that, ‘reading has slowly become a moment of shame,an illicit act when performed in public.’ It says that reading in public has its own history of shame.

Emmanuel Egudu,the unreliable native informant of Black African culture in J.M Coetzee’s ‘The Novel in Africa”accuses Europeans of shutting themselves in their cocoons with their books in every public place imaginable.In Africa,he says, we are not like that ;we are to communal,too warm,too sensuous a culture to cut ourselves off from our fellow human beings to bury our noses in books.

And may be that write up was the core reason, pushing me to work on this piece of article. As I write I imagine an eutopia where people sit under a tree,having their cofee and the shades of emotions, when they go through the pages, reflecting on their faces.

Β  There was a time when stories of young unmarried women in 19th century Bengal hiding books under their pillows so that nobody could catch them. Unfortunately, it now makes up harmful jokes.

Β  And now in a community of smartphone and cyberspace the art of public reading has lost it’s real essense.No one is, even giving a try to experiance the joy of reading in a community.

Ones upon a time our public spaces used to be reading spaces, where we communicated silently with strangers through our shared love of words printed on paper.Those of us who still read in public are now left in the cold.’says, Mr.Majumdar.

Well, reading in public isn’t a mere act, its an act, an evergreen art of travelling deep into the world of letters and ideas, of the pages beautifully printed inside a hardcover.