by Atul Chandra Sarkar
The world to me
Is a tender blade of grass,
Whose greenness enamours
And sharpness bruises,
Where smiles sport on lips
And the inner wound
No matter how painful
Slowly, silently oozes;
Whose music is the blend
Of groans from cracked lips
And the laughter of those
Whom fickle fortune chooses;
Where slowly, steadily death
Germinates in the field of life
And everything ultimately ends
In a silly set of loses.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Double Post Graduate in Philosophy and Sociology and LLB degree-holder, a Gold Medalist from Canning College, University of Lucknow, U.P. India. Presently engaged as Advisor (Industrial Relations) and Public Information Officer (Corporate) at Uttar Pradesh Rajya Vidyut Utpadan Nigam Ltd., Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, India and is a Guest Faculty at Electricity Training Institute, Sarojini Nagar, Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh on the Right to Information Act, 2005. An Advocate registered with the Bar Council. Articles, poems and short stories have been published in popular National dailies like Pioneer, Northern India Patrika, Times of India, Campus Verse, Shaktivani, etc. A Blogger at Times of India's speakingtree and having a flair for oil painting. A democratic, liberal and humanist to the core.
Last updated November 14, 2014