Chittaranjan Dash, Delhi, 15 January 2023
Perhaps death is an illusion
Nothing, nothing, really dies
In that city of cold grey despair
In bleeding wounds of autumn
In that dilapidated tavern
In the darkest damp corner
Drinking second grade coffee
Reading a yellowed notebook
As light winds from sea come
I will slowly look up at door
You shall be there, statuesque
With ruffled hair and eager face
Looking straight through me
Piercing my soul as a sharp knife
