Anit Mukherjee

If I could, I would

If I could, I would
Take away all your pain with a broad smile
And make you believe that everything is fine
And grant all your wishes- in life or after death,
And make sure you could never doubt in my faith,
But you know I really couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

If I could, I would
Rescue you from all the sorrows of life
And keep your life from being balanced on edge of knife
And cover you when you were weak, feed you when you were tender
And would prevent you from becoming a serial offender
But you know I really couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

If I could, I would
Worship you with all the holiness of heart
And uphold you as an effigy of trust
And thank you for all the powers you bestowed on us
And repay you with all my gratitude, but alas,
But you know I really couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

If I could, I would
Try to put an end to this insanity
And again put the wheels back on track of humanity
And prevent our own from being cut and baked
And stop the shadow monsters dancing in our head, naked
But you know I really couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

If I could, I would
Free myself from all the self-conflict
And not help all those sufferings to inflict
And wipe away this persona from my own head
Of pretending to be deaf and blind, half dead
But you know I really couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

The Foreign Princess

There she goes – with all her tenderness
In spite the cold bitterness
In her heart from those broken hopes
And half-forgotten blemishes,
Cause of her rise and reason of her fall,
She is still visible in the crowd- standing tall.

There ain’t a tragedy she hasn’t heard
About a dear lass and a handsome lad
And people like to moist their eyes with it
Though they are the ones whose caused it
And she has learned to live with it,
‘Cause it’s her life and she can’t fake it.

Happiness has ways to find enemies-
He told her once, he who now rests in peace,
With her every step she hears his breath
And with every breath it gets less easy to forget,
Her shadow nowadays keeps no company
And her heart still beats with utmost agony.

Still she goes, rather roams like a ghost
Remembers when he was about to raise a toast
The tender mask of civilization fell apart
And those bullets tore her heart apart,
Her flowing white dress was dripping with red,
And all the king’s horses and men too, fled.

Revolution has its price but try telling that to her,
Cause what was means to you, was an alien end to her,
Some might call this land now sovereign,
With no outsider living in it to reign,
Still that grim face, that grey hair will tell you all,
That my dear friends you still haven’t mended all.

Anit Mukherjee is an engineer by profession who has keen interest,apart74858_104185496317094_162006_n from engineering of course,in music, literature, history and philosophy. He is an amateur writer who writes short stories, poems and essays in both English and Bengali.