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The Order of the Day

The edges of a festive night rest on the fringes of forget-me-nots.
Crestfallen city lights stand in a row waiting for morning to arrive
so that they can be put to rest.
Another year inches to its end as we
bury our faces into stories of faraway lands,
where a sepia-tinged quaint stationery shop
fights the juggernaut of time.
A solitary moon's silver dint lights up a mahogany study table
where old poems lose their way amidst the city's serpentine traffic.
The mulberry tree in the backyard spurns new silk;
the old must die
to give place to the new.
Memories' dying embers forsake us for new beginnings,
as we lay supine to changing times and
slower metabolism rates.
People and places change;
the heart's patina gathers rust,
reddish brown, the colour of rust and autumn leaves!
Which is faster: We, rushing towards the end,
or the end, rushing towards us?

Poet’s note: The title of this poem is inspired by Billy Collins’ poem, ‘The Order of the Day’.

Picture design by Anumita Roy

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