Home for the Buried
That place, which I had even called
home at times.
That place where, in the end,
only your absence lingers on
and a strand of your hair on the pillow
carves out tears,
is suddenly full of only memories.
Everything familiar was so rapidly
devoured by the past —
today remains only a ghost of her herself.
Leaving only my stench in her vanishing act.
How I drag my body
from one wall to another,
clumsily colliding with wash-basins and mirrors
in the narrow corridor.
How I make the carcass crawl
in search of candle lights
amidst fluttering pages of poetry
and a rose gone a tad too dry.
How I yearn for a future around the corner.
The corner outside the reaches of memories.
The corner where some unknown witch
has burnt the last figments of you.
The corner that surfaces after burying
the father, the son and the lover
in a single coffin.
How bitter will my laughter be?
How bitter will my laughter be
when I call that corner home?
© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee
Home for the Buried by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.