THE COMMUNICATION
UMANATH BHATTACHARYA
No longer do I write to you,
That fervour old is
dead, you say –
Your plaint, and friend, is far from truth,
Ah. why for naught
this complex, pray?
Day by day episties
countless
To you I write with my heart,
How can I post those feelings delicate
Too etherical for my quill to impart?
And yet they flap and flutter their wings
Like flocks of swans they soar in the sky;
Can you not hear the cry of their pinions
Seeking their way and toiling on high?
I know not if this telecast of my mind
Your receptor there receives aright.
Enshrined you are forever in my heart
Need this be said in black and white?