It’s end of the day and it’s different
the evening puts her words inside.
 
Sailing boats keep their chest open to the west wind
birds look up at the sky and tweet darkness.
 
Let them glide before the steel bridge
and smell the pure rust of memories.
 
Butterflies land in silence 
it’s like leaves coming back to a dead tree.
 
Now the darkness advances in slow motion
come unstuck the hiss of the circular rail.

Slip from the ghat the ferry launching in a hurry
a world of obtuse angles, lights turn into photos.
 
The conversation on the bench cut a deck of cards
feeling the lines into a speech
their hands shall stay here forever.
                        

The city records scratches and mistakes in silence
colourful mansions reach out to sky
 
striking out the calligraphy on the warehouse wall.
 
Old history papers pile on the archives,
beautiful dolls and lusty babus screening
 
brick and mortar faces, it’s to do with the eyebrows,
 
The warm smell of the wooden doors and frames
red velvet chair, gilt and bronze lampshades,
 
fill with wet memories of Ahiritola ghat,
 
Shuffling down the narrow avenue, the rustle
of quash-squash sound of the animal feet
 
as if it’s the most familiar, most haunting,
 
The cold marble floor erases blood and footsteps,
moments of the gloomy past and the strange sounds,
 
Putul Bari flickers in moonshine to answer the sky.