by Partha Sarkar.
The afternoon is not grey –
it is still bright.
The day is gone
but not lost.
But gone are the words.
The faces gone.
Where is the warmth of those rendezvous?
Long ago…
evenings without fire,
but with dreams.
Mornings though foggy,
brought the meagre breakfast;
the bright discussion.
Have I missed the hands of the postman?
The globe spinning round
as usual,
shows ugly documents, the states
of sadness.
Wars,
Killings,
False promises.
Have you not seen the trees with birds for a long time?
Here the sacred barks at helpless nights,
Preaching
philosophy without fuss.
Do you hear it?