i met a lost glove, sometime ago,
at the bottom of the stairs –
the one that takes me down to road,
the one where the girl slipped and fell, a few days before.
then i met a broken umbrella
stuffed into a bin at the bus stop.
although, it couldn’t tell me for sure,
i silently hoped that it had seen better days.
there’s hardly any trace of last week’s snow left on the streets,
just heaps and lumps grazed off and gathered onto the sides.
hiunma hamro neelo lamo chayya
afumai ramaudai nachdai chann
paglanu bhanda agadi, hami kehi samjhana
khaltima jamma garna khojdai chau.
the morning sun
makes shadows on
the white wall.
orange blue and grey.
this warmth could never
fill me enough though.
not in here.
if only writing it down
a thousand times
would actually empty it off
of all it’s meanings.
it does not matter.
det spelar ingen roll.
i would sit, head bowed
if these words were to
i could empty
my heart and mind
but what of hearts and minds
that are not my own?
the thought of stepping outside is enough to make me frown, but who says i can’t admire the pretty little frost crystals (revealing themselves) on my window pane?
how it can rain in this city,
for hours on,
drizzling without a sound.
like it were mourning for something,
lost very long ago,
until it forgot why it was mourning at all.
it takes courage to write in full sentences,
without riddles and metaphors.
and even when i do write,
i always want to behind letters, punctuations and old sores.
i woke up to tears this morning
where did they come from?
and why were they so heavy?
like they were excavating the path they were flowing on.