Prashant Godbole
By
Ananya S Guha
Mists Of Time
Taking time off
whispering poems
in corners of soft
roads, paths transgressed
by love and, love making
the rains take a call
and harness the wind
to fresh deeds of openness
I take a few breaths and rummage
through some pages of past.
Calling, Poetry makes a hideous appearance
only when you want it. This town is ensconced
in poems of rushing streams and monoliths
that stand erect in man’s memories.
What do they mean?
A civilisation once, twice, upon a time?
when minstrels sang euphoric songs
now cast into weaving poetry, hills
and mists of time?
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