I sometimes regret
What’s the use of my overwrite
I regret too
Why at times I take to overtalk.
Are the slots given me by God
To write and talk so far
Are getting numbered?
The count is well-nigh over?
I am diffident too
That I may not reach out to and touch the heart
Of my revered readers and auditors.
Maybe the poorer I get day by day
The more garrulous I get to be, with no more delay.
The rusty sun in pellucid dark stoops to kiss
What is beyond, beyond the skyline
Resting its lip on that of the horizon.
Old bastions of love and respect
Have crumbled long ago.
Living on straw
Left in solitude
I fly my lonely feelings on the wings of words
They flutter faster than the bouyant air
Could ever bear.
Words love to jostle
As if they are marbles
Shaken in a sack
Producing an irritating polyphony
Subverting the symphony of my narratives.
They fall flat on my audience.
And one by one
Friends love to leave me.
And they left me
Rejoicing over my sordid solitariness
Over dumping me in a dustbin.
So be it.
Thankful that some needed
And some heeded me once.
But I will write my overwrites.
Helen Gardner told my mentor
She always loved an overwriter.
Summer breeze will come
To carry my sung words far off
From the civilized cacophony of the day
To the distant deserts and rumbling rivers
To the grains of sand and to the ripples of water.
My name will be written on sand and water
Deities and nymphs will come down there
To dance and sing on my sandy and watery name
Long forgotten by endeared brethren.
March 10 2020
©® Jay Basu