A Portrait

Shomir Dos the photographer
Is not a happy man
The shadows under his droopy eyes
Sag with the sands of time
They moisten as he steps back
And tells me of highs and lows
Bemoaning the fate of Calcutta
The city of old
His own fate was chained
Without a doubt
To that of his beloved city
He ranted and raved
And cursed the Gods
Politicians and pot smoking cops
I could only offer my sympathy
With intermittent grave nods
I really felt for Mr.Dos
For his moist, droopy eyes
I wanted to take his picture
"Why, Shomir Das is dead!"
He relented to stand with his creations
Those beautiful black & whites
They peered over his shoulder
As I peered through the lens
Mr.Dos smiled as I showed him the screen
"You digital fellows, don't know how it feels"
He turned on his heel
And dusted off a photo
"A rare statue of Lord Vishnu, it'll bring you luck"
I felt my eyes clouding over
And said a hasty goodbye
I'll never forget you Mr.Shomir Das
I hope you find your smile.