“It’s the windows that make me saddest.”
~ Heba Ahmed.
It is not we alone who forget.
Time, blind eye, forgets.
Time forgets when time does not
Want to remember.
Or maybe it does, secretly.
Time, blind eye, has ears.
After the face disappeared,
The window
Was as desolate as the star,
That no longer appeared again.
The creeper stayed green
For a while, till
Waiting burnt its skin.
Some windows are thirsty for
Water,
But the air has dried up.
The days here are darker than
Nights,
Days cannot hide themselves.
Even the birds here know
Something is wrong.
Memory is a silent neighbourhood.
Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee is a poet and writer. His poems have appeared in World Literature Today, Rattle, The London Magazine, New Welsh Review, Mudlark, Acumen, The Fortnightly Review, and others. His first collection of poetry, Ghalib’s Tomb and Other Poems (2013), was published by The London Magazine. His book, Looking for the Nation: Towards Another Idea of India, has been recently published by Speaking Tiger Books (2018).
