By Shamik Banerjee
If I consider Winter as my foe,
Whose swordlike chill has rendered me unwell,
Declined our paddy’s health, its yieldly flow
And turned our home to one cold hoary cell;
This judgement, then, will be against the Lord
For He who blew this chill, brought Summer too
Last June, did fields of teeming rice afford
And fill our home with light and bloom anew.
But if I think of regions where the Sun
Remains throughout the year with ruthless blaze,
The natives there who wish its stay was done,
Beseech the Lord to grant them frosty days.
Hence, though we both, alike, seek easeful lives,
What I deem branches, to him, are but knives.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. You can find them on Instagram @where_tales_end.
