Life passes by, I speak things
That matters to my heart
What I felt when I didn’t speak up
The crimson hue, the poetic cradle
Children’s hands soft as muds
Pools where I bathed once
I belong to my memories of present
Car windows randomly come by
The buildings are yellow and streets
That speak of monologues
Of people and politics and the rusty mirror
Nails that are scary of partition blood
I mug prosaic utterances of past
I breathed that I am I am.
Sayani Mukherjee
Picture Nick Victor