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The Rising Sun

Amitava Mukherjee

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The Rising Sun

The rising sun ascends 
from the pond, 
in a tangle of light—

Upon the indolent Simul tree, 
its mystical heart is grazed 
by the sun’s slender rays, 
weaving through complexities 
with an effortless grace—

Across the somber waters, 
blue feathers drift 
on the tide of a dormant wish—

A solitary white crane 
stands helpless, 
like a pale candle 
held in the water’s gifted touch—

Another, with a nonchalant irony, 
sits with knees drawn 
facing the pond 
in quiet wait—

Banani’s copper-toned shadows, 
hair left flowing and free; 

lilies scattered all around 
in the day’s slow indolence—

Brajoda, lifting your gaze — 
what have you witnessed 
through the passage of the day?
Will you find the words to say it, 
in quiet accord, 
within the Senate Hall of Calcutta?

Walking the long the corridor,
you will recall 
the sun’s ebb and flow 
from a morning now lost, 
spreading through the heart,
into the inner chambers—

Brajoda watches Banani— 
adrift in the water, 
through the grace and the grit—

Uncelebrated, 
unloved, 
she floated upon the stream 
with a quiet, simple ease—

The love of serene lilies 
radiant in every direction—

The white crane forsakes 
the water’s hem 
and takes flight,

vanishing into the sleeve of sunlight,
absent mindedly—

11/4/2025
Amitava Mukherjee
Copyright@ Amitava Mukherjee

(Translation of উদিত সূর্য - The Rising Sun)