|The green bench|
Vines hold the trees in embrace. In the veins
blood now simmers, now calms.
Many a trial zigzag. The days
go without a straight autobiography.
we find that we do exist.
For a while we pick on some strands
from someone else’s life-story, and
wonder at their variance
from those of our own.
We also pick out a bench which is green
and green its thatch overhead, although
the colour and the looks do not remain
the same through the day-time sun
and the night-long gloom.
We come back again and again
as if looking for something we forgot.
We recall our forgetting, and soon
we are tired of recap and recall,
for we did not know the purpose of it all.
From nowhere a horse appears and
snaps at the grass and dry leaves.
Its appearance is a relief.
With a jolt we note the abrupt
ending of the holidays. In a flash
the bench we used to come and sit upon
its face set to the hills
through every season.
Art critic, poet, writer of fiction and children's literature, Prayag Shukla edits Rang Prasang,
a biannual publication of the National School of Drama, New Delhi