A stone,
Small and chiselled,
Lies in the dark
Beneath the moss.
Picked up,
Thrown in the stream,
Created ripples
And momentary bliss.
Happy,yes, ecstacy,
Utility he finds,
His potential,
He thought
Is realised.
Still, immoveable,
He lies there,
For uncountable
Dusks and dawns.
A net, then comes
To his rescue,
He was happy to see,
The nearing azure.
Thrown on sand,
Alone and lifeless…
A soft hand ,
A warm possession…
He found himself
In a corner..
Among wires and papers,
In a dark and torn
Carton.
About the contributor: A teacher of literature by Profession and a poet by heart, Panna Paul hails from Silchar, a small and beautiful valley town on the banks of Barak river, Assam , India He is presently one of the editors of the first little magazine dedicated to English Language from the Barak Valley called Yawp. He is also associated with the literature circles of the Barak Valley.
Shahadat Hossain Shaan 
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