By
Pijush Kanti Deb
A Stony Autobiography
I was set
at the very onset of the olden time
when history was just born
engraving me on a piece of stone,
diagonal to the eyes
but still straight to touch
the universal heart inspiring artists
to handshake with me
appreciating me
a gorgeous part of art,
God-fearing to touch
the dust of my stony feet
and a hut was built around
to worship me
and then a thief appeared
and I was stolen,
flown and sold away to a rich man
to enrich his drawing room
or simply to demonstrate his richness
to add something more
to his pride and contumacy
but the appreciation I got
brought no flow in my blood
except a flow of tears in my stony eyes
remembering the wonderful feeling felt
when an artist appreciated me
touching my hand
and when people touched my feet
with tearful piety thinking me
as their earthly God.
To Cut Ribbon First
In quest of a dream house
I became almost a lame
getting the link between feet and eyes cut
and my well-wishers left me alone too saying
“You have stepped on your own shit, wash it out and try again”
and pulling my hot tears down
to shed on the mud of my bad luck,
on my unfulfilled wish for a dream house
and on my unsanctioned longing
to cut its ribbon first.
Alas!
In my unabated efforts
whenever I went near to door
with my sharp scissor
added by an unknown tickling of a naughty hope –
singing and dancing,
suddenly my scissor fell down and heart stopped
its palpitation realizing the ribbon was cut already
by someone else
chosen by my own dream house.
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