|NRUSINGHA PRASAD TRIPATHY
The world appears as if to end,
like grains of rice hard to find
on a leaf-plate after a meal
the diverse movements of a lifetime,
a gust of unforeseen wind
traces its marks and leaves.
Afternoon, and in a swing of eager sunlight
is it a pale picture that rocks back and forth?
Who is the artist ?
Afterwards,just a blur of shadow
For in a sudden explosion
was everything wiped out, creatures all,
every sound, each and every inanimate.
Does memory ever have a body ?
And can a body carry its memory for all time ?
Unspoken despair stands up
and sits down over and over again,
unable to escape from itself
being itself alone.
Man is buried
in a world of his own making,
like a river that has reached its end
in a small shack of a labourer repairing the bank,
leftover life,having lost its identity,
keeps on tormenting at every instant.