When the Year’s Last Bell Doth Toll

When once again the waning year’s bell knells,

And through the hush its mournful tenor swells,

A newborn spark of hope within me springs,

As winter’s breath doth fan its trembling wings.

The griefs of mortal toil, like autumn leaves,

Are swept aside by Time, who softly weaves

Oblivion’s cloak o’er all our fruitless pain,

And folds lost ventures in his night again.

Upon the scroll where Fate hath writ yet naught,

Fair Triumph waits, with silent promise fraught;

And gentle Joy, on furtive footstep near,

Doth chase the lingering shadows of our fear.

Then Life’s swift chariot, drawn by powers unseen,

Rides swiftly o’er the dream-enchanted green;

My mind, new-fired, ascends on eager wing

As curtain’d days to open vistas spring.

And lo! When at the gate stands Year newborn,

My soul’s lute wakes and hails its golden morn.

Yet—step by step, and creeping month by month,

The hour betrays the promise of its warmth;

Bright visions—once as gold in Heaven’s sight—

Grow pale, and sink into the common night.

Thus doth the world resume its weary round,

And hope lies prone upon the trodden ground.

But still—when that last bell tolls once again,

New dreams steal softly through my spirit’s fen.

My heart, though schooled in Hope’s most fragile guise,

Yields yet anew to sweet, beguiling sighs;

For such a soul, by airy phantoms wrought,

Must feed on dreams—or perish in its thought.

©️ Debasish Das