NOBODY’S CHOICE

The book on the table

Has been resting on its spine –

God knows why,

for quite some time.

Its faded leather cover

Where golden writings shine

Sings of its woes

With the passage of time.

The brittle yellow pages,

Fly in the air,

Rustling in fever

Saying a silent prayer.

The thumbprint soils

That look so tragic,

Once - crafted with care,

Carried tales of magic.

.

And with each passing year

The sheen grows un-clear

Books lie in fear

‘Coz readers grow fewer.

With lifestyle changes,

a shift in focus.

CDs and videos

March in through our doors.

Fire ‘n fizz’

High-tech art

Is the fare today

To go the 'Pepsi' way.

Bookshelves in cubby-holes,

Move to the corners

Sharing the space with junk

As strewn around lies,

Enough ‘funk’.

Birthday gifts wrap

Electronic toystt

And hours are spent

On computer ploys.

Tales of glory and trust,

Unread and unsung,

Are left to gather dust

On the top-most wrung.

The gift of a book is

No one's choice.

‘Coz silence is usurped

By cacophony and noise.

Dola Dutta Roy, Calcutta, India