If winter comes –

Will that mean the end of the days

We had been savoring?

With the steady awakening of these branches

And the equally steady fall of your visits and of vows each time –

Shall I suffer like cold cinders?

Trampled a thousand times?

Somewhere, I shall retreat where

Weary of all these, my well-trimmed being shall wait, but

For me.

With a deep breath and a warm sigh, I shall linger…

Even if winter reigns with all its insolent fury,

And your momentary visits become lesser and lesser –

I shall finally retreat where a lump of solace shall stay, but for me.

Let all of them gather dust –

Let them all: these ruptured trees awaiting the funeral pyre.

Even if winter comes with

all its insolent fury, with all its decadence,

I finally know that nothing eerie awaits me –

Not even your erstwhile furtive glances

That now rain fire and ashes.

Then I shall be me only

My self, who shall await its own kind.

Arnab  Chatterjee