Angry Narcissus
When rage seeps through me
Like a slow and wide stream
Turning thoughts to moss and mud,
I ask: Why stream, not waterfall?
Why not curse and shoot those
Boulders a hundred miles away,
Create precipices and misty sprays
Of fine white and eviscerating bile?
So sad, stream is all i am... witless,
Trickling discontent in well-worn
Beds of shallow rocky pools
Where little fish, sly, regardless,
Flit between unhappy hollows
Of my vapid, clear as crystal tears.
Sanjib Basu 