The words are waltzing around in my ballroom of thoughts
There’s no specific tune, there’s no instrument
Only silence along with murmur of solitariness
And muffled scream of memories from soul.
The words are becoming breadcrumbs to thoughts, errand,
Leading me to the ruin in West Sun tired light
I’m traveler who has no map or plan or route
Isn’t it what’s known as vagabond?
I’m a traveler who had left home long ago–don’t know how long
I’m a traveler who know how long I’m in this ruin but will not tell
I’m a jokh* who is in love of memories not of treasure or gold…
The words are waltzing around in my ballroom of thoughts…
Dedicated to H
*Jokh is a Bengali term for the foul soul who guards treasure or something valuable.