Friday, October 20, 2017

Santosh Bakaya writes



Section 6

The trees swayed a warning, and again the echo 
Resounded and started to grow to a crescendo. 
"Have you seen the emerald eyed beauty, oh hear! 
I am looking for her, oh, is that she coming near?" 

In the forest the sad echo of his voice ricocheted
Blood curdling screams rent the air, as the sky greyed. 
Everything appeared eerie in the semi lurid gloom 
As the branches of the spectral trees went boom, boom.

Was the desolate boy only a fevered mind’s creation?
A frenzied dream, a figment of my imagination? 
Just a spark of madness in the embers of the night?  
An owl hooted, a bat took a sudden and frantic flight. 

The fireflies stopped flitting, the birds their trilling.
The tension was killing, the screams blood chilling.
Cold radiated from the earth, gone was the mirth.
The air smelt of malevolence and of painful dearth.

The trees went mute, the forest went back to sleep.
Then rippling laughter resounded in the forest deep.  
As two figures emerged from behind the trees  
And broke into dance, playfully sang the breeze.

Hand in hand by the river bank they danced.
From behind the pine tree, I watched entranced. 
The moon was like a seraph, sublime and serene.
Stars twinkled and winked like voyeurs keen.

A sudden gale hit them with malevolent ingenuity,
Spitting airy expletives and curses with impunity. 
Soon the trees were in its tempestuous embrace,
The gale like a man armed with a sinister mace.

Like a torrent of abuses, wrathfully it hit and slashed
In anger great, against the boulders loudly it crashed. 
The trees made jerky movements, their balance to regain.
The earth writhed and shook as though in absolute pain.

Were they clippings from a film dreadfully archaic
Where everything was a charade, a fantastical fake?   
"It is not easy to be green when there is plunder.
Your reckless behavior is tearing us asunder.”

The weeping willow groaned, looking utterly forlorn.
"With this rampant destruction, we will soon be gone.   
And the only green will be the monster green eyed." 
The poplar looked sadly at its brethren and sighed.

Asked the pine, “O, wise human, what is our fault
That we are at the receiving end of your assault?"
Into the whine of the trees now poured an echo.
“Pray, can no one tell me what I want to know?”

The trees whispered, swinging their manes sadly.
A squirrel stood on its haunches, squinting madly.
“Her eyes were resoundingly blue, like a clear sky.” 
Through the veins of the forest there came this cry. 
 Claude Monet (1840�1926) Arm of the Seine near Giverny in the Fog Oil on canvas, 1887
 Arm of the Seine near Giverny in the Fog -- Claude Monet

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