Your room is mellow with incenses; and quaint monsoonal Mays in you
The woodpecker taps the porch at night, losing its days in you
Your family’s returning footsteps at dusk—faintly crackling time’s fire
The terrace moons on your dusted books trickle their rays in you
In you, the perfume of childhood’s wet soil, its dahlias revisit me
The mornings bleed dew on marigolds, goldened always in you
The blade of your book on my bedside board; its sepia caresses me
Like a boat that anchors by the riverbank that oozes its gaze in you
Your music embalms a sinner, like winter sunshine on mango trees
As spring returns to Forbesganj, again, with its kisses ablaze in you
Qasim became the woods, oh love, of your squirrels and caterpillars
Yearning to be a droplet of tea, that in your balcony strays in you
Photograph Courtesy: Bishnu Narang, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 