Etc17 Poem by shuvo chakraborty

If this the end of my road,
A lonely leaning road over the green valley
Beyond which a panorama of sudden spurt of hills high
With careless gazing of moving winter clouds
Dry and chill in the closet of upper hills,
Where perhaps no man treads
And the red looking road lost its careless foray.
This was the place
Where my confound self being stumbled upon blank gale
Sought another way where gentle arteries of mine
Offering to hide it from wailing wind of chill disappointment and
To walk further million of miles over mystic bloody cells
Where neither the light of Sun or moon nor the fires of night stray
In gathering greenery and silly tulips never let constant nod
Over fast flooding water of unknown brook and no winking snowy peak.
But here the silence eternal and darkness ethereal
In honing mature breath pile up enough letters of weight
And water, air enough to sustain my thought and myself.
Here, where I had found mountain of escaped pages of old Masters
With radiant thoughts enough to dim the glory of first ray of day
On highest snow or passionate full Moon over Pacific bay.
This is the land of famine but genuine hunger neither cry or wail
But only moaning silence heaps stout clots
Of riddles and prophetic ignorance of unsound masses,
Where very few can sail wading past the bloody visage
To listen aptly the sincere oracle
What we could have and what we are.