sharmishtha basu

170×170 day 34 3.6.15

“An artist is nothing without a patron, it is a harsh truth that history has repeated too often, think of Van Gough and check out the writings of this humble author while you surf for your books please!”

Wildflowers in bed of rocks


The ruins of the old house stands alone by village road,
dirt road that gets deserted right after night fall.
The house looks at the orchard across the burning ghat,
small huts, kids that play there at night, make him sigh.
A century ago, that orchard was not here, there laid the river,
It roared like a lion in monsoon, its water lapped his walls,
with million crystal tongues, it tried to bring him down,
but he won, man-made dams stole the might of the mighty river,
it shrunk beyond recognition, now, once in a while it displays,
tamed version of its wild face, once in a while, when sluice gates
are opened after a hearty rain fall.
But it never touches the walls of the house like before, it gushes
past the orchard, he only hears its tamed roar.
Sometimes he thinks if man had not tamed that mighty river,
it would have won by now, he would not be standing here.
For his caretakers have deserted, abandoned him.