Today I will write a sonnet.
Therefore, I look out.
Today I am soaking peas;
Tomorrow they will sprout
Tomorrow will be a new day,
Though the birds will chirp again.
Will I see myself anew—
More of my joys, less of my pain?
At sunset, the day after,
I will read what I wrote,
No matter their scornful laughter,
No matter my scratchy throat
It is not about who reads this or praises me or chides;
This something of myself, here, is what no mirror hides.
Arup K. Chatterjee 