Honest Poems Are Sad

Shukla Sarkar (Rajarhat-Newtown, Kolkata)

I dream of a city of flowers in the morning
I walk on the gentle path, I walk and walk,
My own words float in the morning breeze,
Bundles of wild flowers come to my senses.
I want to open my eyes like a bird’s nest,
The smile on the face of a sad person is like poetry.
If there is no blue light and a sad afternoon, honest poetry is not truly written.
When the rain falls on both sides of the path,
The whisper of the trees reaches my ears,
The colorful horizon memory floats on the pages of the notebook,
The watermark of old suffering appears in the poem.
The rain stops in lazy love, the water that sprinkles happiness, the pride that crosses the courtyard covered with light
My poetry dreams in the song of the evening.
It does not believe in the conventional way, at the end of the day
In the eyelids, it opens the lid of memory.
The sun shines, it gets wet in the smell of the wind,
And like a story, it completes the war rehearsal.
My poems, soaked in the miraculous rain,
Sing the raging song of blissful thoughts.
The distant river soaks itself in the rain
I will paint the dawn dream and leave it in poetry,
In the middle of the wall of the memory of love.