BALIYATRA GROUND

We wander here on a sprawling bed of sand--

Children of a generation lost to the past wind

On the dry chest of a much-bruised river

Rich only  in a memory to too often rewind ;

The ragged Winter bed of broken snail shells

That  clank at the touch of anklets of silver

Worn by women, with their soft ringing bells

Soon to be drowned by rising vendors’ yells ;

Where grains of sand stick to feet sullied by sands of time

As beauty of water lost its sheen at the middle of its prime ;

Filth accumulates on bed behind all glitters of the annual fair

We get every household article here minus pure, healthy air .

The sails no more puff here with the wind of past glory

Baliyatra now speaks of an altogether different story .

Comp. n copy right : saroj k. padhi

08/11/14