An April Gray Morning

on


The Sunday morning is silhoutte-gray

Sun is under the veil of heavy clouds

A tender breeze is blowing, s’times it’s a gust

What is truth I ask self, as I light my day’s first cigarette,                      

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the bread crumbs

Scattered for the pigeons, crows, sparrows to feed on…

Or

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the ghost

Of  some hazed cloudy morning…

Or

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the neighbor girl 

With brush in her mouth looking at the dotted trafficed road

Or

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the smoke around me…


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9 Comments Add yours

  1. Bahut badiya! Khub bhalo Sangbad ☺

    Like

    1. Sangbad says:

      Di you surprised me…😊

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Haha….You know I love Bengali culture, language and literature (translated in hindi or English)

        Like

        1. Sangbad says:

          Yes I know it very well…the comment was a surprise like your poem…

          Liked by 1 person

  2. You are such a versatile writer. Love it. 👌

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Sangbad says:

      Thank you for the kind appreciation…I also like your writings

      Liked by 1 person

  3. The subjective relativity of truth..

    Like

    1. Sangbad says:

      May be…to me its the serenity of the morning

      Liked by 2 people

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