O Mistress mine! Have a day which is fine-
Thy olde Moire may dim at completion
Of Love- which may hackney onto life-line;
The scent of Love may not be a pity wear
Where Love lasts not by mere consolation
And with full a basket day doth appear.
Old shadows, glories' past be, and must hale
To thee, - some as recumbent's gushing win
Or, some as melted dews, on grasses pale
To subdue pain, and make grow content mind
We are slave of tongue, far-off; obliged din!
Yesterday, what happened, may be kind
If, unclustered be heart, or out fear
And we, as mysterious as day near.


[Published in his self-published book "Some Suitable Words" in January,2018]




COPYRIGHT@ RESERVED BY PIJUSH BISWAS
10/24/2016