The Last Don

Posted: November 23, 2013 by Ankur in Writes...
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DAY 6 – The poet kills a bird. His worn-out hands weaves a net for the last time and traps the bird by its legs. 

DAY 5 – The poet is rusty as he sits by the lake, his fingers fiddling around with “leaves of grass” and his mind is a hazy blue as the bird rises out of its grave, fluttering its wings wildly and spinning and swerving in the air, and then striking the poet on his right thigh, thus knocking him out. And says the painter, the poet’s friend – “The world is a boxing ring indeed.” 

DAY 4- He is peaceful as he enjoys the winter sun. Yesterday’s disappointment isn’t even a shadow in his thoughts. A thing of the past, he says. 

DAY 3- He sits down to write a poem. For him, it’s just another one of his creation. But for the rest, it is a romanticization of the idea of a masterpiece from the little master one final time. The sun sets in suspense.

DAY 2- His lines are a testimony to his unnatural power of imagination, his poetry is an ecstatic rhapsody for the common men. But such is the work of fate that the poet falls prey to lack of imagination, people call it “writer’s block”. His poem is left incomplete, and he goes back to sleep.

DAY 1- The members of the family of the dead bird were knocked out one by one, and with each killing, the poet and his lovers knew the end was approaching near. The poet’s end had been prophesied long ago, and it had been the center of media scrutiny among the trees and the birds. And when it happened, the whole world felt silent and the President of the American Association of Milk tweeted – I don’t understand literature but I watch him write “bcos” whenever he sits to pen down his imagination, the production of cows’ milk in America decreases by 5%.
The poet, introvert in nature, finally spoke. And by the end of his speech, there was not a single dry eye in the jungles of the subcontinent. The swans sang songs in his praise, the kingfishers drank wine for a change, the petunias read aloud his records and the chameleon became the Indian Flag for the day. He, unable to control his emotions, walked into the desert and never looked back.

People abbreviate his name as SRT, the greatest poet ever to have been born in this world.

Gaurav Haloi

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