A Blog of One's Own

  A resort where none but      Your own warmth Invades the secret zones                                                             Of your imagination        -Sreekala-                                           

As I looked down through the oval window             Endless fields lay in quiet green patches        Intervened by brown              A slender silvery spark winding through Caught my eyes- which tributary was it? Can I know by the sense it evoked in me?             No, I can’t!      I need landmarks to identify!            This is the city’s gift to me!             Does the sense come back when we become formless,          When gravity ceases to hold? or else,  How would Baba come back home?             As I looked down through the tiny window              The mourning stopped when I thought          I was taking my Baba home.              -Poem by Indira Mukherjee-