Satyananda Sarangi is a young civil servant by profession. A graduate in electrical engineering from IGIT Sarang, he enjoys reading Longfellow, Shelley, Coleridge, Yeats, Blake and many others. His works
have been featured in Shot Glass Journal, Snakeskin, WestWard Quarterly, Sparks of Calliope, The Society of Classical Poets, Page & Spine, Glass: Facets of Poetry, The GreenSilk Journal and elsewhere.
He currently resides in Odisha, India.
A Mother's Love
The first breath of your love, a scented breeze
Caressing the flower of my childhood;
Yet in winter, the sun behind the trees,
Whose warm presence in youth I understood.
What could match those years spent in such a blissful state,
Or what love be made of such a sincere touch?
Independent of time, space, twisted fate;
A love that didn't change when I changed so much.
Is life a mendicant, helpless and scorned
To have outlived a mother's precious care?
If so, then let this bitter truth be mourned,
For there is no love when she is not there.
A Brief Epitaph
His days are done and nights have claimed his breath,
As crickets lull truncated lives to rest;
His fragile dreams, now fled, were never blessed
But may he find eternal life in death.
The flowers grow and wither year by year,
And thorny stalks then grace this ground in awe;
Whose deep endearments dare invite the thaw
Where every bead of snow’s a frozen tear?
The gravestone reads, "The songs of heart will die,
The feelings come to mould, and love to dust;
A sigh unwilling to accept goodbye
Can wreck my pleasant sleep beneath the crust.
If someone’s loss reminds him, words betray;
Unread his book of fame can’t add a page;
My dormant lines won’t ever let him stray,
And soothe the blows of fortune’s deadly rage."
There lies his tombstone marred by disregard,
While dappled moonlight shines upon the bard.
Published by Sparks of Calliope
Between the descending sun and midnight,
A sight of another world takes over;
It travels to verdant fields of clover,
And shuts the inner eyes on this world's light.
The stars have gone away to sleep,
The winter night is dark and bleak;
And a lonely heart strives to speak
Of the promises it couldn't keep.
The art of man is born after he's dead,
While he lives, his gift is a weary head
Bearing the burden of his every word,
And holding on to dreams of being heard.
How finely I glide on the fluent stream
Of awakening and wish I may exit
From here all at once and not bit by bit,
To where the frail voice of heart rules supreme.
But winter has left the shivering earth,
And gone are those long nights of biting cold;
The empty garden is ready to bloom,
Retaining as much sunlight it can hold.