The star is dead.

Past treads the threshold.

All those associations try hard

to build up the unfinished bridge

of mixed memories: joy and sorrow.

I shut my eyes to let imagination grin…

Could there be another tomorrow

not being under siege

by sharp-edged shard

of loss. Head might spin

and behold

at the night  sky in stead

of waiting for that pretext not to end

the lament and the shyness to defend

the delusion that’s disarrayed.

Past treads the threshold…

as the star is dead.

                                                                 ~ Pratik Mitra

                                                                      Kolkata, India