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| Rachel Claire |
A story box for my daughter
All afternoon, the whole evening
Used to open on every holiday
The story box.
From the small to the big, too many stories,
Jumping like fish from an overcrowded pond.
Taking refuge in my mouth, depending on my attitude,
Only for you, my daughter,
With the intention of drawing a rainbow
In your mind's sky.
Too many profound but imaginary stories.
Again, from the epics to the autobiographies
Of great men,
The endless stream of simple words,
Dazzling with traditions
Which are steeped in one after another,
Holding hands, to depict in your mind
A dotted palace of dreams.
As time passes, it overturns.
But we used to walk in another world,
One is the orator, and the other is the listener.
In this short period of emotional exchange,
One person's words pouring from the mouth
Make another happy
And you test the limits of my concentration.
Sometimes, the child of my boredom holds
A plate of my sorrow
And begs for a temporary break.
In the midst of my begging, you used to smile a little
Or cry incessantly.
Again, a story emerges to console you.
Silence is driven away,
Capturing the scene in another tearful period of stories.
Now in quite solitude, sometimes reminiscing.
In the body of the story,
Ignition of fire
May not be like before.
The circle of smoke may not paint
Terrified eyes of ghosts.
You, me, and our story box of those days
Are now imprisoned
Inside a cozy chamber made up of gold,
Placed inside a silver chest under the deep water.
No one has the guts to speak in favor of
Those days of ours.
© Dr. Alok Kumar Ray
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| Dr. Alok Kumar Ray |
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