By Snehaprava Das
THE DOOR I NEVER OPENED
A nonchalant mist settles calmly
Over the pensive trees.
Dull and scarred leaves spread below in thick scatters
Like languishing memories…
A decaying door at an obscure bend
From the ruins of Time
Raises its grey, obstinate head.
What lay behind that discreet door
Did I ever want to know?
A wonderland of many rainbows
Or a sick valley of snow?
Had I cared to see if there lay behind that door
A terrain of spring delight
Or a tunnel of an endless night,
To see if the warm moment of love
Was gained or lost?
I clung instead to a world
Full of winter and frost.
The door, desiccated in time
Stands locked there still
May be if I had tried but a little
And stepped beyond,
I might have entered a rose garden
But I was never that discreet.
Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit.
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