Hands of Creepers

Gopal Lahiri

To step into my wooden door, embraced
the mellow sun and the soothing breeze,
after a few steps,
on the elevated platform
Soft hands of creepers
touching you in passing,
I heard your knock, thereafter the silence.

Felt the turbulence, the imaginary love, clipped
On the letters locked
in the front drawer,
Stuffed with newspapers, flawed headlines
Frozen drops of tear,
like in winter rain,
I remembered the messages on my mail,

That was the time you refused to come with me
A fantasy that was woven yet failed to hang on,
Struggling to find my feet
over the roots overgrown
We stood on the courtyard
beneath the leafy tree,
In fire our savage silhouettes,
I cried inconsolably, you were stone deaf,

This morning summer winds surrendered to the
Cloudless sky,
put me back on the time scale.
Hundreds of burning stars
in my neurons,
The scar and wounds, the song of the oriole,
Heard and felt and grasped
the long silence.

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