Sunday Poem By Tapas Dey

Sunday Poem By Tapas Dey

The owl

A traditional oil lamp is flaming, The wick of my turn is burning To encourage the young athlete In the field of relay race . I extend the story of my forefathers As one witness of morning and evening. During the rare lease of siesta, I feel the real taste of blood and salt. Sitting under a motherly canopy, I turn over the pages of generation Till late midnight. Then I hear an owl warning me, "Remember, the man, History never follows the straight line."