Photograph of a closed wooden door of a house, facing the street, overhung with dense bougainvillea with pink flowers.
Photo by Abhidev Vaishnav on Unsplash

This is a time of knowing too much
of either love or death
and drawing a chalk line around yourself;
now you are a continent

And you secretly think a petite woman might come
out of the by-lane near the promenade
on a Thursday to greet you in archaic French, and smile
like a painting. Nothing more.
Just greetings.

You are now averse to touching
any other human being.
You have eyes to touch the trees, houses,

the darkness and the growing stories
inside your head;
You spin silk yarns night-long and drape

every naked lamp-post, road and building
with a new saree, a frock, a shirt
or new trousers

And you stop deciphering incidents like
why your talkative newspaper vendor is absent
for three consecutive Thursdays.


Sekhar Banerjee is a poet. He has four collections of poems and a monograph on an Indo-Nepal border tribe to his credit. He lives in Kolkata, India.