From my window
The orange moon turns tepid
From within
These orange shadows taking over
From without

Last sip, such succor,
Everlasting bliss of dreams.
The cat's purr finds sleep.

Soliloquy #137

When the clocks tick on,
Dripping water turning
Into tidal storms,
Falling raindrops
Gurgling into gutters,
Dragging the rivers of loneliness
You caressed for so long,
When those blunted claws
Scavenge through memories
You stored in the corners of matchboxes from long ago,
Who then will come?
Who then will ask
For your dreams again?

Bijoychal

What of Bijoychal, then?

What will he wear?

What of Bijoychal,

The name stumbling of my frame?

What of Bijoychal,

Whose father is a servant?

What of Bijoychal,

A name I fear to say?

What will he wear,

Bijoychal?

When I invite him to my day?

What will he wear,

When his mother isn't there to comb his hair?

What will Bijoychal say,

When the others ask him to speak?

Will his colours stand up and say

Bijoychal is  dressed in my old clothes?

What will Bijoychal do,

At a rich boy's party today?

And there, when you watch
Yourself unravel
Within the threads you shunned,
What,
Then,
Will
You
Say
To yourself,
When you were whole,
Within the threads you shunned
For the joyous feeling of
Unraveling?

Reflection: shimmer
Of leaves. Mirror with no soul.
Cold air turns sharper.

Afternoon Respite

A languid limp
made him redundant as our click-
clack
replaced
the thump of files. The clang
of 
steel 
plates on makeshift tables drown 
out 
his 
wife’s quibbling better than the 
chatter 
of 
his 
grandchildren.

The Bookseller's Lament

Speaking to strangers
of Mersault’s moral ambiguity
while
windowed wheels lit within
by slim screens of modernity whisk the children
towards tomorrows,
the bookseller recounts the death
of salesmen.
Four books later, the
subdued smell of unsold books
lingers long
on the pavement.
Here, I drink sugarcane juice.