by Nirjhar Dutta

My time has come, utters the old mariner.
O! My wooden friend,
You being the inspiration for my frothy forth;
May you be revealed as the autumnal sun
Dispersing the mist of desolateness,
May your unending valour be bestowed like a
Caterpillar scribes out the cocoon
to become a humble butterfly.

Humanly affection, humanly forgiveness
to carry with me
in the last ferry as I crossover to the world
that celebrates the festival of End.

Death like a dice,
Only casts a purdah on my body,
to squeeze out the inertness out of my soul.
My soul refuses to parley,
smiles away by saying –
“Death cannot drain life of its heavenly nectar,
I am sure for certain.”

The Boat and the Old Mariner