Thursday, October 10, 2013

The Bench

The Bench

The bench
On the old road
Within old Fort
Waited for its occupants
Who came their
With their little stories
With lot of love
And affection
Little nitty gritties of life,
Shared and declared.
Small fistfights,
Fought and Forgot.
And Remained was smile
And a cool embrace
From the good ol’days.

Now it waited
For them to come again
For their chitchats
For their fist fights
For that steal speck
In her cheek
Or that of her flying kiss
It waited, in spite of
Night or day
Hot or cold.
For the stories untold.

No one came again then
Only the birds sang
And people changed
Road was redone
And benches painted
It waited for its old occupants
But no one came again.

© Tarun Mitra

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