I gather the panoply
Of my arcane whims,
Sew them with thread of tears
Into a garland of hymns.
Customers come and smell,
As I display them in retail.
Repelled by the dull flowers,
As they judge every detail.
They fly away to finer prospects.
I undo the thread with trembling palms.
I sit in cold silence
Among the torn pages of psalms.
Still, I sit and admire
The yellowed hymns wane and fall
As the thread melts away,
A gust of time blows them all.
© Abhijit Chatterjee