Rupam Dutta
All the colors of time
spinning on their brittle axis
The yellow hows, the purple ifs,
and the blue whys
Winter has not just set in,
it was always there
Summer is just an illusion, always was
Just the way we are wounded,
today and forever
Like burnt matchsticks –
still warm after the flame has gone out
And we climb the mountains
of our own making
Calling it success,
as the sky laughs down
on our futile attempts
We loiter on hope's doorstep
Wondering when it will let us in
Never realizing
that the door was always unlocked.
::x::x::x::
Poet Rupam Dutta
is also a playwright and
a novelist. He lives in
Guwahati
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