To Hair Loss

I could hear them cry out loud
But never could have cared less
How the mighty and the proud
Nurse in them such foolishness
But now I bask in better light
Whisper in some silent prayer
When fanning fires of fearful fright

The pillow wears my crop of hair.

I see them squandered on the floor
And everyone of them doth sting
At my core of heart and more
- The blackest fibers of my being.
A shining pate of errant yield
No oil, no herb can come to aid
The mysteries of the scalp that sealed
This early autumn of my head.

photo: gettyimages.com

This blog isn't actually a weather update portal but it pleases me to announce that Kolkata has been blessed with a wild Nor'wester few hours back, easily making it one of the most pleasant evenings of the year. The sky took a strange whiskey-like complexion , something very close to taalmichhrir sorbot and all of a sudden  it started to rain - the sort of welcome thunderstorm in the lap of summer that would inspire the sentimental Robindro onuraagi to run to the terrace and sing 

       " Bhenge mor ghorer chaabi 

           niye jabi ke amarey" 

with open arms.

And some people just can't stop bothering about how the Knight Riders are doing. How ridiculuous can it get, I wonder. They will ride to their own graves at the end of the table when the season is over. Not to worry.

You cannot write if you do not read.

- That explains why I am always out of ideas when trying to post.

The random lines that hovered inside the head and somehow managed to make sense every time on the screen have all disappeared. And to live without your thoughts is living in loneliness.
A terrible feeling that.