[After a long I have tried to write something. It’ll be great if you read this and let me know in the comment box of your thoughts.]
As the fan whistled air, the late spring night susurrate the night
Embrace in the cobweb of the memories, he sat down to write.
Few remember him, and few have not
And he knows that all.
Silence of the silence, zip of the last buses and late night cabs and cars
And the whistle of the last local, all are his companion
He wants to write. He wants to hear the cheers.
(Now) he knows no one waiting for him.
The lizard ticks somewhere in the room–three times–
(True, truth, true–it might be saying)
(When) He whispered the words
(When) He mock self by no reader for Mr. Mitra.