A morn, like a Purnendu Patri,

This morn is like a Purnendu Patri,
Seriously,
you as if having a conversation with me,
Like me asking you
What you did last night
Returning home,
And you telling me,
you thought of crying,
And me by you being asked,
What me had done,
And me replying
me wrote how scribbles some,
And how me left them afloat
Into the breezy moist cool air
So that they could reach your perfumed hair...

And me talking more,
Like how my words and alphabets
Bearing deep deep red
Graded in terms faded
To pink first
Then further to be white and pure,
As if Your divine bless me endured
To be a saint myself,

Then you asking me...
So many other queries,
Like in which pocket matchsticks me carried,
And when they particularly evoked
A blue blue flame,
In which city lane
The waterlogging was most wavy,
Which movie this year used 3d animation most savvy,
And when the sky last
Dropped down on me
To catch rosy petals ...

So many conversations
Come this morn,
Like Purnendu Patri,
To me...

(Note: this one is inspired by a book of poems by Purnendu Patri, a scribbler and a poet and a painter of a kind, and timed by this still moist lovely morn;
The photo used is from his book of poems, 'Kothopokathan', pg 16, pub. Ananda Publishers Pvt. Ltd, second edition, june, 1983)

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