The Winter Morning Rain

The dark ​corridor,

​which connects the ​bed near sunset

and the well​-​lit Christmas tree​ ​at Sunrise,

​is my library.​

​The half-read books ​reek of arrogance,

​today they ​exude the scent of rain,

winter rain,

​whose drops tease​ ​me

at the window,

​urge me ​to play musical chairs...

If only I was my daughter,

​or I were my father,​

I would oblige​.

I am neither old, nor young,

just perfect to be

trapped amongst dusty books,

uncertain at sunset,

jittery about sunrise.

-- Leslie

Home Free!

He measures it all in miles,

the commutes,

the revolts,

the rebukes;

the mad rush

for affinity,

for love,

for creating music

for his muse,

for her amused lips.

A pilgrim now,

he finds his home tiny,

miles become mere metres,

but their smiles are
beyond ’em metres,

or ’em rules, grammar;

for their joy n spree are free, 

like the waves
on a lake infinite,
a song in free verse!

Pic by Sreetama Bagchi