Ode
Will the pain of these hills lessen?
Ancient, primeval, these hills welcome us to
the mountains where the earth's crust is hidden.
Yet in oblivion, these hills search for an antidote
even as, this city cringes for more, the rush does
not abate, not in the rainbow-hued colours.
There was a time we called you a hill station.
The quest for a city is magnanimous, even opulent
as wide, starry eyed you view the hills in transit.
Should they still be a part of you, should they?
In my supine thoughts, there is a maelstrom,
which dies every time these hills echo, the plaintive
call of crows. Trees nestle by the tempestuous wind
and the rains only spoil ethereal truths, but they are
needed we say.
We need, yes the hills bearing tremulous pains
of past and the rains whistling like wind
to foil spurious moments.
But the people do not look at these searing hills.
Lest a moment be lost, and I orbit between eternity,
time and these hills of plenty.
A teardrop is simply reminiscing
those boyhood excursions of a song.
Ananya S. Guha lives in Shillong in North East India and works in the Indira Gandhi National Open University. He has four collections of poetry to his credit. In addition, his poems have appeared in four anthologies of poetry, and several print/online magazines such as Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, Chandrabhaga, The Telegraph, Femina, New Quest, Journal Of Indian Writing In English, The Statesman, Poesis, Poetry Chronicle, New Welsh Review, Glasgow Review, Osprey Journal, Gloom Cupboard, Muse India, etc. He also writes for newspapers and magazines on education and subjects of general interest.
Will the pain of these hills lessen?
Ancient, primeval, these hills welcome us to
the mountains where the earth's crust is hidden.
Yet in oblivion, these hills search for an antidote
even as, this city cringes for more, the rush does
not abate, not in the rainbow-hued colours.
There was a time we called you a hill station.
The quest for a city is magnanimous, even opulent
as wide, starry eyed you view the hills in transit.
Should they still be a part of you, should they?
In my supine thoughts, there is a maelstrom,
which dies every time these hills echo, the plaintive
call of crows. Trees nestle by the tempestuous wind
and the rains only spoil ethereal truths, but they are
needed we say.
We need, yes the hills bearing tremulous pains
of past and the rains whistling like wind
to foil spurious moments.
But the people do not look at these searing hills.
Lest a moment be lost, and I orbit between eternity,
time and these hills of plenty.
A teardrop is simply reminiscing
those boyhood excursions of a song.
Ananya S. Guha lives in Shillong in North East India and works in the Indira Gandhi National Open University. He has four collections of poetry to his credit. In addition, his poems have appeared in four anthologies of poetry, and several print/online magazines such as Indian Literature, Kavya Bharati, Chandrabhaga, The Telegraph, Femina, New Quest, Journal Of Indian Writing In English, The Statesman, Poesis, Poetry Chronicle, New Welsh Review, Glasgow Review, Osprey Journal, Gloom Cupboard, Muse India, etc. He also writes for newspapers and magazines on education and subjects of general interest.
