The Countdown

A Poem by Swagato Saha

The gates give way to the frantic crowd; "fifteen minutes to go! ",
As senescent frowns on juvenile faces, now flock my windows,
Their fluttering fingers shuffle through sheets, there's time yet for one final revision,
Their sleepless eyes, strained with anguish, and perennial perspiration.

They take their seats, with staggering feet, about to struggle for survival,
Prepare themselves with dreary sighs, some stoic, some maniacal,
Not a single quiver floats through the chill, but for prayers, sporadic whispers;
Mere impotent observers, as unfolds the test, that is to seal their futures.

Far and isolated, the artist weaves, her intimate fantasia,
Fragile sketches hold flickering dreams, trapped in ordinates and abscissa;
Formulas that perhaps she never grasped, unlike her more ambitious peers,
Who sit focussed, steadfast, and resolute, as the exam draws near.

The seconds stagnate; I take a long hard look at each of their pale faces,
How grotesque the years of soulless abuse, have indeed left their traces,
Their bleary eyes browse the blankness of the screen, contemplate the uncertainty;
In this hopeless voidance, our rebels cower, all stripped of their identity.

And how to survive with no identity, in a cruel vile world as this?
Where mountains melt, and the winds bend, to the whims of corporate machines,
And sociopathic vigilantes peer, through cameras in all corners,
And sadists climax to the silent screams, of a billion despairing dreamers...

Bells resonate through my frigid chambers, to rouse those absent minded,
And I reconcile with reality again, to notice the timer's grown red,
Phony pleasantries are exchanged throughout, for friends turn foes hereon,
Mere seconds remain, of the countdown... and just like that they're gone.