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The Past

by Ananya Sarkar
(Kolkata, India)

Sitting by the window lonesome
It flutters through the breeze
Rustling the leaves of memories
And treading on forgotten paths.
It has defined who I am and will too who I will be
Shaping my life like a potter’s hands
Indubitably.

And oft in the bylanes of crowded cities
A near-familiar face or a half-hidden tree
Brings it back like the infest of bees
Stinging without relent, consistently.

Life swirls around me
Tossing to and fro
Till I find myself in the pitfalls
Of the endless past.
And try as I might
To swim out to the top
It sucks me like a black hole
This magnetic well of the past.

The years turn by
Like gasping, gyrating bodies
Leaving me no space
To elbow my presence.
And suddenly when I am jolted
From the wakeful sleep
The clock chimes the hour and the envelope peeks
from beneath the pillow--- unsealed,
Tempting memories,
While the dust motes floating in the light
Bring back the sunshine of another day…



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