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Born of an unmarried mother,a boy
Tastes the bitter rice of life to heart's fill,
Snatching,raping,dacoiting in no coy,
That lead him after all to grind the mill
Of a prison cell,downright doomed,forlorn,
For the free sky above beckoned him there,
As birds flapped and flattered there fair,
In boundless freedom and joys ever long.
The warden studied him and discovered
That the boy,if given chance and sundered,
Could run a Marathon to outshine all
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Wrought in a curious artistic congress,Shelley’s The Cloud does verily shepherd the very niche of our fancy to those inaccessible heights of the spatial sky wherefrom looking down everything looks mystic,as if nothing,less than nothing.True, Shelley is that romantic rebel who wants his readers,too,to transfigure themselves into Shelleys beyond count.And once that be,they would know how multi-faced is the Nature that rings them in variegated looks and colours,shapes and contours.
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adhip ghosh (82)
