The Desiccated Aria

Arid breezes swallow melodies whole,
song-flowers wither beneath poisoned skies.

A mirage shimmers, a wave in the sand,
a cruel trick on these parched, yearning eyes.

No current flows, no ocean's vast embrace,
only whispers of sand, the past's desolate sighs.

Midnight unfurls its black tent, a smothering hold,
gentle stars extinguished by a hidden blade's trace.

Where is Rabindranath, the sun's bard, we cry?
His words, a spring eternal, a dream-drunken tide.

A faint echo, a melody from afar,
"My Golden Bengal, I love thee," it sighs.

But the song dissipates, smoke in the air,
the flute's magic lost, the heavens no longer reply.

In this swirling sandstorm, a desperate plea,
Rabindranath, return that melody,
wash these shores with Bengal's eternal dream, set us free.