Maitreyee B Chowdhury
From the Debris of life
I pick up pieces of myself,
strewn from the debris that is life.
A heart here, a poem there-
a laugh, a caress, a kiss gone amiss.
How much shall I crawl in the midst of it all
and I have been looking since long.
Me and you might seek better addresses soon,
homes without ruins perhaps-
Places where the Ivy has not crept in
and the water in the vase not dead, yet.
My face and yours have been construed over time,
into cynics hopelessly at war.
But then I think,
just for a lark-
Had it all been different,
show me how love and life would have been
had we learnt to love
The children might ask in jest someday,
over a game of scrabble perhaps?
Had we loved-
your eyes would light up,
or would it be mine?
and close again, in The Return of Spring.
It shall be like yesterday’s rain again,
Bolton shall sing of touch,
and hope become a matter of perspective.