Amlanjyoti Goswami
Fresh fire
Far from the fire
I stand still and watch
My city burn
I speak for no one
Just the one now gone
Who spoke four languages
Listened to many
Dreamt in two.
Whose kitchen flavours
Brought winds
From faraway.
But that does not wish rage away
Or understand it.
Born of no soil, I am only wind.
Water that knows no stone.
The blood once more
Runs on the street
The familiar shops
Morning, now closed
Like the old days.
And night breathes a strange wounded silence.
The dark red spilling out
The hospital room
The street and gutter.
The horrors of childhood
Return like a broken dream
Unfinished business of waking up before dawn
And wondering what the day will bring
New stories of those missing, those gone
And what their next plans might be.