POEMS FROM THE UNFINISHED MAN^
The hills are always far awayo He knows the broken roads, and moves In circles tracked within his head. Before he wakes and has his say, The river which he claims he loves Is dry, and all the winds lie dead.
At dawn he never sees the skies Which, silently, are born againc Nor feels the shadows of the night Recline their fingers on his eyes. He welcomes neither sun nor rain. His landscape has no deapth or height.
The city like a passion burns,
He dreams of morning walks, alone,
And floating on a wave of sand.
But still his mind its traffic turns
Away from beach and tree and stone
To kindred clamour close at hando
*From The Unfinished Man (Calcutta: Writers Workshop, 1960). Reprinted by permission of the author and the publishers.,