Post Script Poem by Hemant Shesh

Everyday the things are recorded to have gone away.
Barges of moments reach banks and return answered.
Someone somebody ascends the stairs unknown tethered the finger of terror
Everybody the things are recorded to have gone away
Only the leaves and trunks turn pale
The landscapes change color.

The morbid tales are throne up retting shelves of experience.
Doleful stories of life are discarded down from the high opening
That has lost its color.

Like dry and discarded sheaths dates shrink into tropical comers.
And then the boats sink into sands of frivolous shores.
Bewildered insecure eyes in baffled hurry
Shuffle the pages of an old almanac.

Everywhere Every day the things are recorded to have gone away.


[Translated by Kalanath Shastry]