If I write to you…

I can’t simply think through my fingers
when I write to you.
My thought plucks the fresh flowers,
Drenches in the rain,
Rides the white horses of the advancing tides,
Sways like a dingy boat
against the streams of river Hooghly,
Shakes like the old village bridge when the train passes
while its whistle hangs on the silence of the night,
Dances in madness and in pure joy, the verdant trees
when the gusty storm passes through its branches,
Participates in the evening cacophony of retreating birds
on the treetop during sundown,
Buzzes over the juicy blooming flowers for its nectar,
When a baby babbles and entwines her fingers
with that of her mother for her undivided attention,
When the end of the day, during the dusty sunset  
herd of cattle retreat to their sheds,
When it orbits the sun and travels the moon and stars.
…… And then, you know I could write those enchanting words for you,
pure and pristine like the colours of the rainbow.

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