The aromatic smell of the freshly baked bread hung in the air
Through the glass window across the ocean of tables I see it
“ Its the croissant” he yelps in joy while the rest stare
“What you say?”
He gulps air into his lungs and widens his eyes –
“luscious and soft
Thy pillow you have never touched
Hot and served
Thy the food none ever steals
But you don’t sigh
And don’t you cry
I will tell you how it feels.”
The little boys peek back at the shop and the mouths overflowing
Like the river in the rain
And the clouds in the heat
Their eyes momentarily scintillate
“Oh my I tell you how it waters my mouth
Astringent with its saccharine filling
A cup of tea for which I have been sitting by the shop
Folded legs everyday- kneeling
Alas thats the limit of my sky
But trust me oh my mate
One day we will sit there”
Pointing the finger pressing on the glass
however abstruse
they share their nods
“ We will of course”
“Ay beggars run off filthy. You are here again”
An old man yells
And that was little John
And the famous croissant story he always tells
The aromatic smell which makes hypnotist POETRY by Oindrila Pal.