By Hiren Mukherjee:
I was the sentinel of the sky,
Looking at the sky adorned with
Clouds, stars, nebulas,
I used to sing for myself.
I was twenty or something then.
One day, clouds on which stars used to ride, were
Crushed to minute grains, the azure star
Was snatched by the hand of a stranger.
Truer than the sky became my dread,
Callused words became more virtuous than love.
Now at my forties,
I look at the injured rose in my hand,
I try to recall,
I will always be the scribe of your melody,
Within me, there is euphoria of an azure star.