When an inflamed moon mirrors
Lesions of love as the nightโs own child
And shivers map the architecture of your ribs
Reminding you of almond-scented eyes
And childlike rays on a dimpled chin
And of untranslated hymns from perfumed orchards
Or wasps that the morning turns to a pulp
Or moths that bear the odor of phantom wars
As you walk the leaf-strewn forests of your making
Listen to the music of unloved things
It is time to find fleeting shelters
In the warmth of the words of poor strangers
Who ask youโas they chance upon your shadow
By some insulated pew at a railway stationโ
โHave you eaten, today? Donโt go back
Home on an empty stomach.โ
Photograph Courtesy: Vlad Bagacian, Pexels.
Arup K. Chatterjee 