We see the world through windows, or do they see through us?
Does love cease to be love, when lovers see through us?
Dying plants become the soil; soils dye into stones;
When we die, do plants, and soils, and stones see through us?
Flowers of spring come each year, like loans from dying Keats:
Breath from the songs of fallen petals that see through us!
How we crave the marketplace, each bargaining for passing praise,
Each yearning lavish mirrors—while sunbeams see through us.
Ask me not how I am, my love, let us watch your colours unfold—
Let us not hide our forgotten moons, lest oracles see through us.
Qasim, look, how you and me, had loved our bygone constancy,
Until our past and future became diamonds that see through us.
Photograph Courtesy: 振欽 蘇, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 