Friday, March 23, 2012


The old farmer sits on the bench watching the sun go down.
In a while the moon will rise over the quiet mountains.
The shadows rise and a lark sings from the darkening woods.
The mist-scented October breeze flits over wheat-laden fields.

The stream gurgles and splutters meandering, full of leaves.
The last rays linger. The lights come on. The stars appear.
He feels the cold and senses Death. Content, he looks at his home
And waits for the new season: silent, snow-laden and final.

Diptesh Ghosh

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