Letter to Self

I wake up empty as usual, lonely.

I cannot go back to sleep.

Among the countless stars that shine tonight,

The million constellations changing, forming,

The men and women who sleep in their beds

Or those who walk the windy roads alone,

There is no one quite like me.

 

Around me the beautiful universe unfolds,

Mysterious and unfathomable:

Like a plundering Mongol

In the Grand Library of Baghdad

I am illiterate to the great questions around me.

I do not speak the language of silence.

 

I am a flame that is running out:

The hours slip by, like the golden sands.

My heart beats fainter, the time that passes

Is irretrievable: it shall never come back;

And, despite this, like a petulant child

I chase meaningless trinkets like fame.

 

I who have loved others in this vast world,

Still cannot practice the greatest of truths:

I shall never find peace till I come to love

Myself with my countless imperfections;

 

It is quite probable that I may be saved yet.

Few things have redeemed myself to me.

 

I have not forgotten what it is to cry.

Sorrow lingers like a three-legged dog in my home

And I cry easily, not always for myself.

I hold kindness as the greatest of all virtues

For I falter, and like all who fail,

I would not be judged, but forgiven instead.

 

And the fact that I stay a misfit in all I do.

Like a child banished to a house far from the sea,

I still strain to hear the waves rolling,

Through closed windows, distant though they may be;

If that sound fades, I shall fade.

 

 

Diptesh Ghosh