A constant hammer on wood and a distant conversation.
Two voices, two villages,
Separated by a river that scorns
The silence and floats into my ear
Through these razor winds.
There are no moons. No remorse.
No balconies to get drunk and high, I
Sit here in the cold
Wishing crows good morning
As they sigh.
Time hangs on the edges of the mountain, white.
Something tells me: this is where I will always return.
Goirick Brahmachari works as a consultant in a research organisation in New Delhi. His first collection of poems, For the love of Pork, was published from Les Editions du Zaporogue, Denmark in January, 2016. He co-edits The Sunflower Collective.
I have been pigging out on Oreos lately. They aren’t good for me. My doctor warns me that my nocturnal habits are wrong. Too many snacks. Too little sleep. I quote that boy-devil, Bart Simpson, and tell him not to have a kitten.