Ode to Barak

M Minakshi Devi
The silver streaming river of the ancient days,
Nosed like a hound,through the meadow,
Breaking free through a chasm of hills and fertile land,
Where blossomed as many as incense bearing trees.
A wind-rushed river and a sailboat quivering like a leaf in the breeze,
Rushes restlessly down to a gigantic sea since ages in history.
With a swift delusional energy flows the Barak.
I share a special affinity,enfolding days  bygone of juvenescence.
I've walked barefoot on its muddy bosom across the mango groves,
Across crops of wild rice on its brim,
Across the beetle nut trees,across the tower of bamboo griddles.
Casting pebbles into the calm center,watching circles spread side to side.
I've bathed in that measureless river and lay over scented hays.
Time halt not,nor the gushing river Barak,
Slicing through it are oats of the boatman.
Seen escorting globetrotters back home safely,
Whilst other few binding pin to catch fish for livelihood,
Fishing for Rohu and Hilsa despite the swift lucid current.
They say the river is ancient,as ancient as the world.
Older than human blood flowing in human veins.
The odour of fresh water,sweet is its translucent way over boulders,
Beloved of the grey still rain,it is  long, profound and mystical.