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.
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.