Daughter A daughter is not a passing cloud, but permanent, holding earth and sky together with her shadow. She sleeps upstairs like mystery in a story, blowing leaves down the stairs. We who at sixty claims that we know everything ironically know nothing. We become dull and disoriented by uncertain weather. We kneel, palms together, before this blossoming altar

Self-composed
Saptarshi Dutt

Sweet Heart


I will never forget of all the things she has done for me

Just those trivial stuffs

Saving me a seat on the bus

Tying my shoelaces and taking my blames upon herself



Now the years have rolled and both of us has matured

Even now, when she is beside me

I am still the little kid

Waiting to get her hands of support


She is my alibi. She is my punching bag.

She is my friend. My sweet heart.



Self-composed:
Saptarshi Dutt
20.11.2008