Friday, March 23, 2012


In a house full of moth-eaten books
I have stayed indoors all winter long.
I did not know of the blowing winds
As I lay rediscovering my Frost;
The relentless rain on my window
Was lost to the words of Neruda.

But now February knocks on my door.
The first tinge of green is on the branches.
Do I hear the approaching footsteps
Of what I think can only be spring?
My soul is drunk with Rumi and Hafiz
My heart is hungry for white hyacinths.

Diptesh Ghosh

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