I’ve never heard my heart thump
Like it did against that dark valley,
On the one hand, two throats and a lump
On the other, two griefs that did not tally
An evening perfumed with an unsaid word,
And a hush that felt so like a prayer,
Amid recipes of raisins and sour-gone curd,
Four trembling lips overhung the air
If only the eloquence of glances had voice
For there was no breeze to carry the truth
Even breathing was an act to rejoice
Like a lost sacred thing of youth
Years have soared, between then and today
“It’s something our grandchildren will hear”
Alas, I remember it all like yesterday
Between the fall and the held-back tear
Photograph Courtesy: Snap Stock, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 