COSMIC HOURS

Now that the screen has erased
Most of its contents
That was written with love,
You often go back to the places
That stood by their aloneness,
The canal that impressed you like a river
With a picturesque bridge on it
On which you went by
In a bus and gazed at the water.
Or moved on its raised bank while
The wind almost lashed with its succulent whip,
And the distant ponds and corn fields
Looked at you dispassionately
Yet a kind of fond feeling choked
Your voice,
And you wanted to be there forever,
one with the cosmos.

May be some other places
Will tell you some day,
That you were never so beautiful
Never so free,
In your forlorn existence,
In your pain,
Or in the much sought after
ejection from the
clutches of time
You, who had been
a prisoner of Time,
and this living, so far.