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A forlorn bench, putrid with age
sits amongst vibrant foliage like
a school boy waiting for his first love.
The coarse rustle of
ruling ‘Gulmohar’ flowers tries
to sway him in congenial talks.
His silence forces the air
to rub them off his body;
let him remain lonely
for the guest deserves to stick
to his mad wishes.
The figure that he is longing for
runs away from him
with each days dying in the
ever flowing tide of time.
Still, hope says no, wishes say yes
and the everyday falling flowers
quarrel with the dry leaves
riding upon withered braches,
to impress his soul and the day ends
with the bench shaking them off
with the passing air.
He sits for one and will not break
till she comes running and sits on him
just like the day decades ago,
when these woods used to a park
and the bench was the friend
of her everyday indolence.
