Regenarate My Pen Poem by Rites Ghosh

Dear words,
once my playmate
too lovely and bold,
now drifted so far and slips
in history's brown fold.
My royal mood-
a languishing beggar
finds no alms,
rubab in musical hall
lying lonely, no one strums-
the fragrance case
not dripping any more,
emptied out of brace
looks dully before,
how mosaics of memory
cuffed in ruin-

Time gave in
and went up, leaving his play-
now th' poet in me
smells heavily
of chief wine and clay.

I wish
I have had the glimpse
of him
who in th' richest hub of light
sees life to the brim-
who breaks free
with valiant hand
night's prolong destiny.

Down the road
smiling, as if
he moves shimmering,
moves deep
where arranged certainty
of words gleam-
I wish
I could touch the rhythm
and kiss
the flow of his feet.

I know-
I mean to go
ahead of Time,
crossing exhausted summer of senses
ego's diction and chime-
beyond those empty sighing rooms
where desire in th' faded air
batlike haunts and looms.

Crossing thousands shades,
titled compartments
of honours and acolades
of my body, and of my history
I'll go
and regenerate my pen
with his graceful show.