The Last Harvest

By Manohar Kumar*

Whose path did we cross to come this way?
in the blind turn of the road
we will never know,
whom we met for the last time.

The curling smoke around those
mist laden valleys have stories to tell,
of you and me
sitting in the dark night,
stoking the fire of passion
drying around those lips.

Whose flicker were the last words?
we will never know in dying memories-
crystallising in the myth of time.

We will never know the last leaf to fall,
the last snow to melt,
in the never remembered winter

Disparate time passes under those lips,
like waters of different summers,
tracing paths along banks of remembrance

In the smoke filled valleys
of wilted flowers and dying dreams,
we will never know the last lily
which smelt not of gun-powders.

Histories bind, when centuries disappear
in moments of immortality.
I and you-
before we kiss it adieu-
let’s send a tear filled letter
to this last cloud on the horizon,
whose moistness will dance
for the last time among the waves,
before it rains down
for the last hands to caress
the last harvest, the last existence.

*About the poet


2 thoughts on “The Last Harvest

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