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