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
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