By: Pramod Rastogi

Echoes of Yesterday, Promises of Tomorrow

As Santa glides in
On his reindeer chariot,
Millions of hearts swell with joy,
A collective cheer reverberates
Across the vast expanse of the world.
The year now nearing its twilight hour
Clings gently to its fleeting days,
Sounding a quiet bugle of retreat,
Silent, sober, and serene,
As if to atone for the dreams
It carried but left unfulfilled.

Yet, even in its fading grasp,
This year offers moments to revere.
Humility courses through its veins,
Bidding us to celebrate softly,
To honor the journey it marked.
Soon, like all its predecessors,
It will bow out gracefully,
Finding its place in the archives of time,
Resting forever in the dust of history.

Soon it will be a new year.
Newsfeeds hum with retrospectives,
Chronicling victories and missteps.
As the clock edges closer to midnight,
Anticipation stirs like a tide,
Awaiting the instant
The present fades into memory
And a successor bursts forth
In a thunderclap of festivity,
Igniting hope anew.

The new year rises,
A tender sprout of possibility
Rooted in the soil of yesterday’s regrets.
Its promise whispers softly:
Old disappointments may yet
Be soothed by fresh ambitions.
But time, unwavering in its rhythm,
Will march on as it always has,
Unafraid of gain or loss.

Sanctuary of Verse

Ever since I have sought
Shelter in your shadows,
You have altered my life.
Wherever I turn my gaze,
I see you, O poetry —
Spread wide before me,
In tides of fleeting words,
In the crisp breath of autumn,
Weaving garlands
From nature’s hush
And its tempest of feeling.

In my haste to find you,
I left behind, in a hollow,
Without a moment’s doubt,
The collection of vanities
I had once so blindly gathered,
Baubles of pride
Plucked from the chaos outside,
That for too long
Had cluttered my mind.

Soft in pace,
Yet deep in sway,
You keep me free from dogmas
That drift like fog
Through a world torn by strife.

Tossed into your current,
I feel reborn — light and unbound,
Ready to rekindle the fading flame
Of the romantics’ spirit,
Where doomed embraces
And porous emotions
No longer daunt me.
Now I let them wander freely
Through the corridors of my mind,
Adept at parting wheat
From the lingering chaff.

I may not be the disciple
You once awaited.
So banish me, if you must,
I shall not lament.
But let it be known:
I will not forsake you,
For you, O poetry,
Turn no soul away
Who seeks shelter in your name.