Nov 2016
When we were eighteen
sang the three women in chorus
and the bus burst into Spring.
When we were eighteen
they giggled and sang
the bus was a garden
the seats swings in the wind
the passengers angels and fairies
When we were eighteen
sang the three women
men beamed and the women blushed
as they broke into chorus
when we were eighteen
the ride was free
and they all stood up
their bones bellowing the chorus
their skin shining in the Spring
the child grew into eighteen
the old descended into that golden year
never knowing when their stoppage came
when one after the other they got down
and again it was a bus on the road
but with the whiff of Spring
eternal in the crimson blush
of the sun setting and rising
its engine and axle and tyres whirring in chorus
when we were eighteen
sang the three women in chorus
and the bus burst into Spring.
When we were eighteen
they giggled and sang
the bus was a garden
the seats swings in the wind
the passengers angels and fairies
When we were eighteen
sang the three women
men beamed and the women blushed
as they broke into chorus
when we were eighteen
the ride was free
and they all stood up
their bones bellowing the chorus
their skin shining in the Spring
the child grew into eighteen
the old descended into that golden year
never knowing when their stoppage came
when one after the other they got down
and again it was a bus on the road
but with the whiff of Spring
eternal in the crimson blush
of the sun setting and rising
its engine and axle and tyres whirring in chorus
when we were eighteen
Written by
Pradip Chattopadhyay
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
