By Banani Sikdar
A Bedouin, often rushes to the mirage,
A supposition of comfort, a bleary soothing image.
Tired, weary feet struggle towards the vision,
More the struggle, more distant is the comfy cushion.
Seemingly steady, settled habitants,
We too live a gypsy life, driven by aspirations distant.
Throughout we are busy gathering costly comforts,
Sidelining true happiness, achievable without effort.
Nonstop treadmill of chimera, incohesive success and glory,
Reflected, clear and sharp in our stock supply of worry.
In retrospect, life is quite like a mirage,
Collection of undefined, unattainable dreams' collage.
Taking us further away from our real possession,
Colours blinding culture, perspiration tiring compassion.
Bereft of love and humanity, we are willing desert dwellers,
Oasis, a textbook image, life, a mirage, ever, burning in the pot boiler.
By Banani Sikdar