Do you think I will die
because my hair is grey
and I lie quietly on my bed?
I hold the stars in my eyes,
and the universe. Galaxies
are still part of my being.
My past lies in the stardust
that chanced into a bubbling pot,
spicing it with a bit of magic.
I bubbled into being — young
tiny — sub-microbial, curious,
awed by the evolving plenitude.
Over centuries, I morphed
into this form that lies
limpid dreaming the future
while ticking off the past.
One spring, I will moult.
Know that I have suffered.
Suffering dwells on the past.
The future only anticipates
in hope on rare spring-days.
Mitali Chakravarty wafts on a cloud where rests borderlessjournal.com. Her poetry can be found online on Poppy Road Review, Fixator Press, Saaranga, Masticadore Canada, Daily Star, Piker Press among many other places.