À l’heure du tout à l’image et du buzz sans suite, «l’express» souhaite faire découvrir la plume de poètes, de chanteurs, d’écrivains et de tous ceux qui jettent leur âme sur le papier, et qui mettent en mots des réflexions profondes. En cette Journée mondiale de l’environnement, nous célébrons particulièrement ces voix uniques qui nous invitent à contempler le monde autrement.

“The time has also come to identify*

and preserve free

flowing stretches of our great

rivers before growth and development make the

beauty of the unspoiled waterway a

memory.” Lyndon Johnson

Since her birth

On the green mount

And moving down the

Verdant hills, she surmounts

Her heavy burden all along

Humming gaily a lovely song

As she winds her way amidst

Rocks to enliven any listener.

Lending ears to mother’s song

Pervades the heart with rapture,

Imparts peace to a wearied mind

And a sense of solace to the soul

Anywhere it is challenging to find

In the womb of a globalizing world.

Still purring her pleasing song,

She hastily hustles down the vale

Carpeted with deep greens all along

And bordered with tall luxuriant trees

With birds chirping on the branches,

Or gliding as creatures gay and free

Along the unblemished heavenly arch

Airing their best tunes, trying to outwit

Singing mother’s divine blissful tweet.

As she moves down to the lower vale

What greets her eyes is a stunning tale

Of fairy flowers grown by folks with care

Amidst green grasses wild but fully fair

Alongside her bank of a scenic beauty.

Mother nature runs on without cease

As part of her relentless daily duty,

Singing as if the whole world to please

Until she reaches the undulating plains

Where she can eye jovial sugar canes

Staring for rain at the azure sky in vain

And sourcing their food from her bed

To feed their rooty and thirsty veins.

The singing river treads on and on

Through bushes, leas and beyond

Until her eyes meet the swarmed city

With tall buildings jostling factories.

What does she behold to her dismay?

Worn out mattresses and rusty frames

Laid down on her flanks in an array,

Dry branches thrown on her lane

And bleached water joining her flow.

Instead of her sweet melodious song

Mother a sad and woeful moan blows

As she just wearily winds her way along

To the very end of her preordained destiny

At the wide stretch of the welcoming sea;

Man may come and man will certainly go,

But singing mother will ever and ever flow.

Let her ever hum her holy melodious song

As on her journey she merrily moves along

Let us not tarnish NATURE’s bank or her bed,

But pay all the desired respect to her instead.

Bio

Krishnanand Guptar

Financial Advisor at the Ministry of Finance, Economic Planning and Development, he has developed a keen interest for poetry, particularly for philosophical, spiritual, divine, motivational and inspirational poems. He has published several collections of poems.