The streets are empty and the sunny bricks of red call me home
I find myself in a saree
Rabindrasangeet playing on a loudspeaker
Bhalobeshe shokhi nibhrito jotone
Amar naam ti likho
Tomar monero mondire.
“Write my name with tender love
In the secret chambers
Of your heart, my friend.”
But the city is empty
Who do I call my own?
I rummage through the sheaves of paper in my hand
There are so many letters
No one to give them to.
I scatter them as I go
And I write a poem on the envelopes
Each telling them I’m sorry
I could not exist in my role.
The singing voice stops
The street is empty of sound too
The letters are but scraps of paper
Words melted into dust.
I empty myself in the deserted street
The standstill hour of the sunny day
Reduced to one long moment
I cry without tears.
The city is still picture perfect
Beautiful in its sepia ruins
I close my eyes for a moment
Rest at somebody’s doorstep.
After a long moment again
I open the envelop of skin
Renewing my vision
The night has creeped in
And it’s still a deserted city
I see shadows in each corner
Nostalgia of the souls who left
I try to communicate but they are gone.
I vaguely remember for a moment that
I’ll come back again here tomorrow;
Before I can be certain,
The sun rises
I return with a stack of letters
A ear for music
A soul of yearning
And I come home.
