Shamasis Bhattacharya

It was mid-day morn,
A man on the terrace stood,
Clad in few drapes,
Fresh from his bath,
Chanting prayers
He swore to uphold daily.

With arms folded, he stood,
Facing the sun,
In prayer.
All that could be seen:
Him and the celestial orb,
Connected by an unseen beam.

His arms, folded, were wings
Poised to span wide,
To cleave the winds —
Yet like a bird chained,
Yearning for flight,
His whims remained earth-bound.

This man, so meager,
Beside the spectral sun,
Stirred by a tranquil thought,
Provoking reflection:
All life, mere vines crawling,
Helpless, begging from the sun.

The sun, not fully visible from here,
Taught me where
It might be truly seen—
Reduced now to
A mere orb of fire.

Kissed by Icarus, tainted by incest,
Quenched in the Bohemian lake,
It simmered unchanted,
Merely a source of warmth,
In an astronaut’s dream
To one day reach the ocean’s heart.

Then, descending the steps slowly,
He moved down.
The sun, newly adorned,
Echoed a solemn black sound:
The scene framed a screaming portrait
Of the sun setting, humbled.