By: DEBANJAN MITRA
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),...
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience . . .
. . . Shall I at least set my lands in order?
. . . These fragments I have shored against my ruins
In his famed 1819 poem, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" John Keats
optimistically assigns high value to the aesthetics of beauty and its closeness with poetic truth that redirects the poetic mind to an advanced zone of consciousness:
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