I might be the last one

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I might be the last one
to write such a sad poem

of the coming night
like slow sonorous river.

The dogs break the silence
with their raucous barking;

The wind picks up its chorus,
scampering through these darkening alleys;

Shrill hoot . . . hoot . . .
of the lonely owls

is a sad reminder
of the lives we’ve lost.

I might be the last one to walk
through these darkening streets.

In the day — it was such a busy city!
No one knows — at night how alone it is!

How hurriedly everyone left
these alleys of despair.

These streets at night are homeless,
lying down in its thick emptiness;

in its claw-toothed solitude . . . I shall walk
devouring bits and pieces of raw time.

Walk in this valley of death
singing Moonlight Sonata (if you can).

Walk through this wilderness
with pungent smell of fumes,

losing yourself into this leach-greasy concrete forest.
With drooling flesh of your cheekbones,

walk as fast as you can,
skirting the utter horrors of stepped ghats.

We will be faultless partners
in perfect dreams (if you wish).

But, alas, if you do not walk with me
along with my troubled heart,

I might be the last one to walk
with such a sad poem engraved in my heart.

Twitter: @bibek_writes

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