The town grew richer in councils, its riches withered away—
Magic turned to memorandums, miracles withered away!
A friend joined a monastery, with investors backing him:
Soon he founded Nirvana—the monkhood withered away!
If you insist, I’ll take the tablets, only if you spare my pain—
For I have been living on it, since the basil withered away!
A philosopher told me over tea, “burning refines the soul”—
It burned, but before refinement, the biscuit withered away!
The saint forgave the world in public, saving grudges for home—
The night lightning struck his thatch, scriptures withered away!
I told someone to not argue, Safar—even marble has its flaws—
Alas, the jury loved sculptures: dreams of justice withered away!
Photograph Courtesy: Eason Fong, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 