This Winter Time
The wind is a holocaust.
Memory seems mired
in spate of doubt.
How many winters do we traverse
with the wind's reminder?
And, darkness.
Scalding nights will know.
Dogs will know.
This winter, will it be different
as your eyes
refuse recognition of the past?
Is life light as you lie buried
in interiors of the self?
How I wish I were like you,
my friend, as this desire to search
is another moribund quest.
Only poetry in this winter time
can answer, stamped with
skeleton marks.
ANANYA S. GUHA lives in Shillong, a beautiful hill station, nestled among hills, forests and pine trees. His poems in English have been published in both print and online, in India and overseas.
