রোগশয্যায় (৩)

I Sit Alone

I sit alone here
By the trail of many journeys.
Them, that rowed in the skiff of songs at dawn
At the frenzied harbor of life
Swaying with lights and shades
Disappear at the approach of dusk.
Turning slowly into shadows.
Eclipsing softly.
Today, they are crowding around
The threshold of my delirious dreams
Nameless, songless maladies
Like a one-stringed lute with a lost string
Lost in hopeless search.
I sit alone here
Counting the moments
Quietly, like counting prayer beads
Spread across every niche
Of this darkness.

রোগশয্যায় (১৪)

In this little firmament of my infirmary

Like a dry dead driftwood hiding in the creek-fork

Stumbling in, and breaking the swift currents

Currents of Creation

Step in to gather debris, busy, happy

Carefully crafting a little island

Of moss and plants and every sudden material

Floating at the banks in careless abandonment.

Today, in this little firmament of my infirmary

Currents of creation

Circulate

In deep, focused care

Of me.

Tender hands on my forehead

Gauging warmth.

Anxious wide awake eyes

Wondering about my insomnia.

Even the morning light

Tip toes in, careful not to wake me.

Plates of tasteless wholesomeness

Appealing against taste

Pleading nourishment

Tidying all the untidiness

My unwell unruly life generates.

Smoothing my sheets

Ready for yet another sleepless night of

Endless care

I am the driftwood that created this island.

Of whispered voices

Worried glances

Wavering, soft, touches.

The currents of my life are haltingly

Revolving within a world

Feverishly, far removed from the world outside.

The flash flood is near

That will someday set this little island adrift

Waves of exalted, unfettered. nursed-back life

Will set this little room free of care

Leaving behind a mist of matchless, emollient, memories.