The morning glory with tulip fresh
The fogs are yet to recede and fade
The roaring sound of a whelming sea
The sizzling flow of a chilling breeze
All join hands to ballet as to wake 'em up
The beauties and braves of the isle bound.
It’s Sunday morning and the bell rings seven
The bell of the church in a fanatical way
All loitering round, start merging fast
All fresh like dew on an aromatic bloom
They all are adorned in Sunday cloaks
The best they can as affordability speaks.
Among the congress that headed the church
There’s a young boy with enthusiastic heart
Questioning himself in a murmuring monologue
Am I born and blessed to be only driven by?
I shall bow before the Son of God
But only after He lends me his Gems.
A prophet born of isle soil
Pure at heart, veils by a golden mind
Has vigor to unfurl and not to follow
Has courage to exclaim, to break rules
Son of God smiles at the thought
Will entrust my Gem, boy! Thrive and root.
Indranil Bit's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Born! by Indranil Bit )
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933)
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