Someone is watching us, always,
from a place which the sun never touched
nor ever will, inside this house.
[...]
I see the dust of my father's year rise
from that corner where my son plays
with toys and slow time.
Whose lean fingers run through
his casual hair so affectionately?
Is someone, homeless and distant
over the years, watching him too?
- Stranger in the House, Bibhu Padhi.
No comments:
Post a Comment