Day Two

I think of you, my gaze fixed at the bookends,
a gift from another friend, who was quick enough
to extract a promise to not let slip prose in between,
it's meant for poetry alone, he said. I've lost touch
with him, I know where he is, though. He, too, talked
about revolutions, about things that I cannot learn,
about things that I cannot, may not, and will not
remember. Why is it that you strike root in these
trivial details? What if the revolution fizzles out
in spite of you? Where shall you whet your appetite, then?
What if the revolution takes you in completely and you
disappear without a trace? Whom should I apply for
help, then? I'm worried to death. But if you come back,
we'll meet at the same place and talk. And if you don't,
I cannot and will not belong to any other.


Now Playing:: Aakhon se jo utri hai.....Asha