In the West Sun Light

 

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.