Agnés Anthony
One stormy night with kindred old—
Imaan, Ronit and Me,
A happening from yore was told,
Of Agnés Anthony.
Imaan the oldest brother whom
Everyone disbelieved,
When he narrated of a tomb,
A woman there who grieved.
"I have heard of this woman who
Lived by the downhill tree,
And brothers", he said, "I am true,
'Twas Agnés Anthony."
To trust, his mother did refuse,
Father too disbelieved,
They thought it was a childish ruse,
On some woman who grieved.
His parents declared, they did know,
Of Agnés Anthony,
But she was interred years ago,
In Mark Cemetery.
They said, "She had a dismal lot.
Her parents did afare.
She was lovelorn and always thought
Only her grave would care.
"To the townfolk a will writ she—
Large should be her grave's bed,
Flowers and leaves by it should be,
That would be her homestead.
"But when township that place assumed
In nineteen sixty-one,
All sepulchres they had exhumed,
And graves too they kept none."
Yet Imaan said true was his word,
An old tomb he did see,
And averred who he saw and heard,
Was Agnés Anthony.
He said, "The grave looked cobwebby,
But inscriptions were clear—
'Here Besleeps Agnés Anthony',
That scene was dreich and drear.
"And when ahead the path I stept,
I saw her all alone,
Clad in a maxi dress she wept,
Aside her old gravestone.
"It sembled that same was her look,
As in nineteen thirty,
When I was young. I haven't mistook,
'Twas Agnés Anthony.'"
"Enough of this canard now boys,"
Said Imaan's mother then.
"Now come, a good hot pot rejoice.
It is already ten."
It was a flavoursome dinner,
A lovely time we spent.
The sky was thin, air was thinner,
To the terrace I went.
By ingle the others did rest,
I too there wished to be,
But to stay where I was said my chest,
Mild and sonically.
There I did tind my pipe and lean,
Upon the rampart side,
No starlight from the sky did gleen,
Moon too its glow denied.
I bewatched the township's hazed view,
Although the storm did stop,
For a thick brume suffused all through,
As more the night did drop.
A while later, the haziness,
Began to disappear,
I thought there would be easiness,
To see the township clear.
But all was empty! There was naught!
No township there did stand!
Homes were, whiles ago, on that plot,
But later 'twas a land!
At mid of it, there was a wall,
Upon a clay-built bed,
Broad was its texture, it was tall,
And leaves were on it spread.
To this aberrant event I,
With curiosity,
Took fast my approach nigh and nigh,
To it, where I did see—
A decrepit grave there did lie,
its rifts and grikes seemed old,
an epitaph, which, when read I,
its bold engravement told:
"Here Besleeps Agnés Anthony,
She Lived Her Life in Rue,
R.I.P (From 1873
to 1952)"
Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the northeastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection for solitude and poetry provides him happiness.
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