Kolkata

Cracked pavements,

With etched dreams,

Yellow leaves lying,

Scattered on them;

A typical Kolkata.

Kolkata...

A city of times,

When it was not it’s own,

Of times when it was trampled,

A city through which,

The hot fluids,

Of revolution rushed.

A city,

Of times hungered,

And pained.

A city…

Which is touched with,

Numerous intellects,

Far superior than ever imagined.

A city…

A haven for the birth

Of those men

Who had hot blood

And warm hearts.

A city of tram bells,

And rickshaws,

Drawn over cobbled roads.

A city which sleeps.

A city languid,

Yet vital,

And invigorated.

A city…

Which believes,

In the power,

Of the pen,

Yet unfalteringly hoists,

The weapons of war,

On nation’s call.

A city…

Of ancient,

And untouched,

Inheritance,

Relics of the past,

Colonial and native.

Wild minds,

Molded and carved,

Into rebellion,

Of a kind.

A city…

Of vermillion women,

Who leave ruddy,

Footprints along the paths.

Women with doe eyes,

And rose petal lips.

A city…

Of early morning birds,

Of sleepy visions.

A city…

Of sanguine life…

Of fond hearts…

Of love.