The Clock
The wall clock, wandering at me
It does so at my slight—
As if it think , I might
Finally translate ‘Time’.
I told the Time itself: Can’t you cease!
Can’t you take me back
To the rambling banks of the Teesta?
Where, restless breezes blowing on a youthful scarf,
That pleaser boat and the Teak-wood curve,
The damp shore – the regress
Where, all those words drowned into the river-base.
Rust, that surely settled on the pages of memory;
Yet, moments of love
Bask in the water that green or bluish
Her, floral perfume lingers in a playful guise—
Year, date and the moment—all précis.
Irrationally, time is aging by the hands of Clock.
It does so at my slight—
As if it think , I might
Finally translate ‘Time’.
I told the Time itself: Can’t you cease!
Can’t you take me back
To the rambling banks of the Teesta?
Where, restless breezes blowing on a youthful scarf,
That pleaser boat and the Teak-wood curve,
The damp shore – the regress
Where, all those words drowned into the river-base.
Rust, that surely settled on the pages of memory;
Yet, moments of love
Bask in the water that green or bluish
Her, floral perfume lingers in a playful guise—
Year, date and the moment—all précis.
Irrationally, time is aging by the hands of Clock.
Key Words : love, relationship, nature, poem of kamal nuhiwal, kamal nuhiwal
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