Message In The Bottle: End of An Exile

{A Sequel to The Whisper: Another Day In The Veil}

The mind is disturbed right now; Need fresh air–no it’ll be the breeze…

The poet stopped at this point and looked out at the young winter morning–

Outside of his big poster window…soft mild breeze was touching him–then and now.

The cold has been bidding adieu–a warmth can be felt under the breath–

For the last couple of days…

For last an hour, he is trying to write s’thing different than he had written–

In the present past; he want to write a poem imbued with hope and laughs

Not a sad and dark one with words that are blue and thoughts yellow like a dead leaf–

(That’s) coming out of the marooned feel after the love is gone–

And the posit memoirs in mind and soul…

The poet light a cigarette and pressed the backspace, the first and only line vanished, —

The blank page is back again.

He sits like a cat waiting for a chance to steal s’thing it loves like a piece of fish.

A dream comes to him that he had seen that morning at dawn…

A bottle, washed up on a beach, rolling to and fro with the waves–

The light of fresh morning sun, falling on it, showed there’s a paper inside it rolled up…

He wake up at the very moment when a big wave kidnapped the bottle–

He wake up at the very moment when a big wave kidnapped the bottle–

Embracing it in its white bubbled wave leaving not a trace, but, a…a sound…

A pinch of heat on his fingers startled him; the cigarette is coming to an end,–

The smoke has got blue and heavy; he pushed the burned stub into the ashtray.

(And) he starts writing a poem, after two days, letting his mind to be that of a sailor–

Being drifted away like Robinson Crusoe to an island;–

Friday is the thought that still lingers with him–making him, the poet, write–

After a long time, making him feel like a tree getting the taste of rain,–

After a Kalbaisakhi, on some certain Baisakh godhuli.

The poet keeps on writing; the message in the bottle (seems to him)–

Getting unfurled in front of him as if he had written the message–

Long (forgotten) time ago and had let it go by thrusting it into a bottle…

He felt stressless and relaxed, after a week, as he typed words giving his thoughts a shape.

So you’ve come…Come here quickly, inside the quilt. It’s cold outside.

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