Sometimes there is a morning you
Just feel out of place,
Nothing is happening, nothing,
Aware that your fingers are crossed,
Etching unheard stories in palms.
Slipping through the petals, the dew
Recalls old memories,
Footprints are now a pile of dust,
Bird songs are more ritual, more covering
than musical rhapsody,
In the swirl of hope,
The rising rain clouds
Counting water drops and half-minutes.
At the return, the thunder is more
Whisper than roaring sound, almost too delicate,
For this hidden space inside.
About the contributor: Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata- based poet, critic, editor and translator with 18 books published- mostly solo, A few joint! He has guest edited Setu’ an online journal. His work has been published worldwide!