High Time

The rays of the sun on the last day of the year
filter through my curtained window
to form patches on the floor. Golden ones.
 The pillow catches a few rays and hugs them tight.
The room is bright, but why do I feel like a frightened bird?
The heart is petrified and a paranoid me
  sees nothing but a void, shouting its lungs out.
Oh, these fears, these apprehensions, and doubts!
 Grotesque shreds and chunks do a bizarre dance,
scaring me. A bird happily hops on the window sill,
unaware of the tumult in my heart.  

Darkness falls.
Now, it is the moon eavesdropping,
chopping the night bit by bit.
I hear the descending steps of the departing year.
The night picks up the hems of its star-spangled dark gown
and traipses away.

 My ears prick to the sounds of the New Year.
Hush, do you hear the sounds too?
Soft -soothing -sublime. A sense of Deja Vu.
Lights on! Fight on!  Everything seems to be lit.
Soak the light bit by bit.
 High time!  High time!
It is high time for a joyous rhyme!  

4 thoughts on “High Time

  1. Amita Paul

    This reminds me of Matthew Arnold’s tribute to Wordsworth in 1850 :

    Wordsworth has gone from us—and ye,
    Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!
    He too upon a wintry clime
    Had fallen—on this iron time
    Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
    He found us when the age had bound
    Our souls in its benumbing round;
    He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
    He laid us as we lay at birth
    On the cool flowery lap of earth,
    Smiles broke from us and we had ease;

    The hills were round us, and the breeze
    Went o’er the sun-lit fields again;
    Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
    Our youth return’d; for there was shed
    On spirits that had long been dead,
    Spirits dried up and closely furl’d,
    The freshness of the early world.

    Thank you, Santosh Bakaya , for reminding us of the potential radiance of life even in these tough times.


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