“Hope” is the thing with feathers By Emily Dickinson “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.
Since you have gone,
the birds have stopped pecking at my window
to wake me up,
mornings have lost their warmth –
day finds me trapped in the darkness of my small room,
nights have lost their darkness –
a faint light flickers in my room throughout the night,
keeping me awake.
Since you have gone,
the home-made sweets in pure ghee
have lost their sweetness and lay half-bitten,
attracting red ants,
flowers have forgotten to bloom –
my garden withered,
the trees have shed their leaves –
autumn knocks at the door.
Since you have gone,
the wind has stopped blowing –
singing in my ears –
everything is still like my thoughts
But now, I hear a bird,
singing its melodies alone
in a silent, quiet corner of my garden.
The crops are ripe and the farmers
blow their trumpet –
singing and dancing, in joy.
Do I hear your footsteps at the corner of my street,
turning towards my unfrequented door?
Oh do come, my visitor,
I have waited long for you.
Courtesy: Five poems of longing for the sizzling month of May. https://scroll.in/article/836073/five-poems-of-longing-for-the-sizzling-month-of-may
BAGICHA 