Light drifts, changes,
day rolls into furnace, all fires are fire.
Then there is the blank space
The wall clock stops at quarter to nine.
A dust storm blows the tiny bird’s nest
The flowers fade, I don’t speak of it.
The afternoon shifts to the evening
with crumbly sigh, dimness sinks the needle in.
The voice of the winds like any old
memory, strays in the winnowed sand-yard.
My diary pages are open all night inside
the dark drawer.
And I learn to burrow in the dark yet
I shudder from where the Universe begins.
Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 24 books published, including five jointly edited books. His poetry is published across various anthologies globally. Recent credits: Ink Pantry, Verse-Virtual, Madrigal, The Best Asian Poetry, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021