Clackety Clack

Clackety Clack, Clackety clack
Marking time, the loom
Head down, intent
Heedless of approaching gloom
The weaver and the keyboard quaker
Carried on, as if noon
And the day was all theirs
And there was no impending doom.

I looked at them aghast
And asked
Is it not time to run?
Can you not see the mushroom cloud
About to blot out the sun?
Clackety Clack, clackety Clack
The loom continued apace
The weaver, and his design maker
Seemed in a state of grace

Let us go, let us plan,
Find a way out of this
The sky is falling down
And you pretend this state of bliss!!
A dry wry smile was wrung out of him
Many summers he had seen
For what did he have to lose
Knowing what had been

Life, I screamed, we might save it
If we find a place
I’m leaving right now, to look for
Some safe space
He looked at me kindly
And wished me all luck
And before I left he asked me
A question, which now has stuck

Where will you go?, he asked
As he gently wrapped up a parcel
Of food and cloth.
Both he had wrought
With his own two hands
In the land around this hill
That’s when I saw, my fears so real
Had no place left to go.

(c) Meeta Sengupta

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