Gorvachove, Keonjhar, 1 July 2024
I see you, lost in the pages of a book,
Under the Gulmohur tree, bare-feet,
As the breeze shakes laburnum blossoms
Which fall like golden rain on your dark hair.
I see you, but do not call out. Not yet.
You belong to a half-remembered dream
Like a happy picnic on a winter afternoon,
Never to be perfectly recalled again.
You are not here. I think of you in a land
Far off, unreachable, still undiscovered:
I may have to travel across the wide world
Forever, like Moses, seeking only you.
I see you, but cannot call out. Not yet.
I speak in the strange tongue of wild animals,
With the darkness of a faded picture,
The grayness of a bleak December dusk.
You are lost in the pages of your book.
I imagine the blooms on your dark hair.
In the gray storm, I ride the foaming seas,
Drifting across my sadness, seeking you.
