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.”

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