Holy Mother , to your abode,
Cometh and go devotees in flocks
Oceans of offerings to appease you –
O Mother, riches flow to your Divine coffer.

Mother,the solemn chants colored with desires,
The numerous pleas in the incensed smoke ,
The gong and bells pleasantly mighty,
Craving your blessings in absorbed trance.

Mother, O you the beauteous and kind,
Why spare the rotten dust-draped innocents ,
Streaming outside your Devotee’s threshold
Sighting blank to your Offerings galore.

Outside the chatters from filthy littles,
Gaping at the proceedings lavish towards you,
Know not they, your Devotee’s deliverance,
For they devotedly await there for gifts.

In the unfriendly sun’s gaze, they stand,
Indifferent to the Devotees’ glare,
Hunger that makes them bear all ,
Sparse gifts from your odd Devotee’s ,
Away Carries the little dusty hands.

copyright(c)indrajit ghosal 2008
A Sweeper

Mopping the floors in randomness.
With brisk strokes and bowing just slight,
On the canvas of priceless floors,
A Sweeper dazed, removes the patches.

Patches of snobs and pricey genteels,
Blots of kiddish trails and common men,
With indifferent strokes , he wipes clean-
The floor all day-the Sweeper unseen.

Pieces of dirt that lay bare,
And reminiscences of footwears,
He spills water and sights his field,
And soaks silent, his mop smears.

The Sweeper in his formal blues,
Brushes past shoe-soles many,
and when reined in by fatigue blues,
He rests still ,his pail and mop unglued.

indrajit ghosal .

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