In the folds of his wallet,
He kept winding highways,
A night that once refused to end,
A Train unwilling to arrive,
A river that forgot to bend
And a pillow no longer receptive
To the nightly rituals of grief.
This was the currency of a land
Without Identity cards,
Where the blueprints of the
Ursa Major and Minor
Lay at bureaucratic desks
And distance between temples and mosques
No one cared to measure.
~ Sayan Aich Bhowmik