seaboyman ~ poetry

Patangpur

Once there was a sky stitched in kites-

Now there is a ruin of school- on the hillock-

Which rises by the year- with the dust of dream-wither cumulating-

The kitemaker lives in the mound's shade-

The sun on his terrace wilting with the months-

His son- now of a losing garage- then of aeroplane dreams-

Was the first to fly the dragon kite- his father's crazy conception-

Which first made the school its rest-

When it shut down- lack of funds- the ashokas were transplanted to the principal's mansion-

Benches dislodged before some wild tree sprouts through- roof stripped of tiles-

The intact wooden frame formed gates to the kite catacomb-

The children with severed twines keep away-

Halted education is a pale ghost- and that makes it a favorite spot for cut kites-

Maybe it is the vacuum of the unfulfilled- charm of the broke- tail of that dragon-

Or maybe the reason is in the winds-

The kitemaker sips tea in the last suns- and counts his days on the

Sankranti* kites that rise occasionally- sees the change in the sky-

The constantness on earth- death still charges tears by the minute-

Children spilling still- getting riper- not by years months minutes-

But with each tick of a clock- and when it strikes midnight- they are the

Sweetest in full dreams.

~Ajay
21/12/18

A fictional setting
*Sankranti is the festival of harvest celebrated in some parts by flying kites