The Winter Year ( Smita Dey Tarafder )

The time wheel rushes into the bad, sad and tearful year,

 When daylight ceases early into long nights of ageless fear.

 And pride bows low before preparing to be burnt alive,

 Mingling with phenomenal shadows into fire it does revive.

 O living souls do not term me evil for I am the bad,

 I turn into a poem, post the earthly curse that I had,

 With your inhalation of the starry nights in Spring

 And feeling Summer aura of oceans, which pearls do bring.

 Devoid of the brush, canvas and paint, I am to portray,

 My unconditional love with a single Rain-touched Sunray.

 Amidst the flame of desire suppressed by Autumn’s dancing dust,

 From the cage of words freeing forever Love of the Fall, must.

 Here I promise to turn into the blooming flower,

 Before the earth takes the next seasonal shower

 And love shall be in my everlasting fragrance,

 Before on my tombstone, snowflakes fall into a trance.

By

( Smita Dey Tarafder )