The albatross takes no long

WRITTEN BY HARRY GOVIND

The albatross stares at me in silence  Swevenless, drenched in the pulchritude  Of its misery, redness enveloping its eyes. Its motionless wings cease to fly Its body guffaws in silent sarcasm. The bounds of the ocean it knows exceedingly well,  Clairvoyant foresight, clairvoyant foresight!  And yet in its red eyes, a mist of defeat The debilitating feel of having been swindled. It looks onwards, it looks upwards,  Then deep into the 'deep blue sea'.  Blue for the sapien stands a zillion-- The colour of tranquility, to the crooked one-sided smile.  Nevertheless, in these unending, uxorious blues,  The albatross sees a swarm of white (El Nino beckons.) For the sea and the moon, to the pen,  Are lovers, whose ardence renders the Latter's fairest face at night. And in its all-seeing eyes,  It sees its love camoflauge into white,  And weeps in the paralysing dread of loss.  Tears wilt the albatross' eyes 'Dying is an art', it recalled with a sigh. The hand that bites, the heart that feeds,  Deserves no adroitness in no art.  The albatross fumes, and fumes, and fumes.  And then in a sudden stutter of wings,  It takes off, hovering mercilessly over the sea,  Out in the quest for plates-- Plates of soot, Plates of skyscrapers,  Plates of polymers, Plates of rascals.  Until it finds a neck, haughty and supercilious,  Standing between the Moon, and the Deep Blue Sea. Perhaps the mariner could say a thing or two: He knows it wouldn't take too long.