I saw the small plant
In the deserted tin shed
Growing happily in the dark
Under a broken wooden crate
The slender stem bending its neck
Towards the crack in the wall,
Seeking out sunlight and the breeze,
To get rid of the blanched look.
The heart seeks and searches without pause,
A lonely hunter stalking love day and night.
It dies everyday a little with sickness growing.
Sometimes it is almost stifled
Under an overwhelming desire
To sit on a bench in some railway station
And pour out to a stranger
The contents inside as the blood
Spurting out of a fresh wound.
Sunday comes bearing
A bundle of indifference,
Monotonous moments never ending.
Evenings are a table,
At the corner of a restaurant.
Time flies slowly, silently,
As the rising white rings
Of smoke from the cup of hot tea.
An empty room, an empty bed
Await at a place called home.
Faces on the streets are all strangers,
Their eyes hunting for familiarity,
It is now in confinement elsewhere,
On the pages of a strange book, a facebook.
I turn the pages after pages fervently,
A shiver of excitement running through me.
A nun humbly bending over an open hymn book.
Strange faces smile at me.
An enchanting mystery glitter in the eyes.
The heart is in a trance,
I am drunken, savouring
The last drop of wine,
Eagerly I bend as the plant
Under the broken wooden crate.
Vigour soon changed to apathy.
Insatiate I close the book,
The heart is now a barren land,
Where no plant will ever grow.
Aimanu Begum
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-heart-is-a-lonely-hunter-2/
