By on March 31, 2016, in of Worlds

In the evening sadness comes and stands by the door, his face is hidden. From the dying sun he took some colors and painted his body. The sadness comes in the evening, I stretched my hand and he caught my wrist, in an iron-hard clasp. He caught me out from my room, his face is black, he is ahead of me and I follow him. I crossed from the evening to the night, from the night to the dawn, then the morning, the noon, the day, the month. Crossing water, tree, boat, city, hill. Crossing blows, stumbling, poison, suspicions, jealousy, graves, genocide, the bones and ribs of civilization, swamp and grass. Then crossing my own death, death after death, going on and on. The bony fingers holding nothing but a pen. Nothing…

‘Sandhyebela daraja dhare dNadaalo bishaad’  Joy Goswami