Thursday, November 14, 2013

The Little Red Book

The book you gave me lies on my desk.

Among its leaves an old red rose.

 Neruda and Frost have crushed it:

Only scarlet petals remain.


The great towers of Babylon,

The might of Egypt, our sweet poems,

And all the philosophies matter not

If the whiff of the rose perishes;


I say this not out of sorrow

But an unshaken sense of wonder:

My life is a sum of all things

That touched me, small and beautiful.


Little red book, remain with me.

Among your leaves the old red rose.

Time flies, we go, but while I am

Her touch stays warm on this red book.


Diptesh Ghosh


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