Doorways are now ancient history,

and I wish you are here with me.


There it is like yesterday, the night sky

displays ink spread, something distant in exchange.


Each day, morning sun spills on our skin,

winds descend on our veins and arteries.


Just when you pick up lightbox and open,

all our shadows disappear in a moment,


The pine leaves still wet with mist, let the tiny

birds fly into our haiku, our syllables.


I wait for day after day, month after month

memories dance on the walls,


Time burns in unwashed fire, await your return.

We know that there is no chalk mark, no stripe of lariat.


Still, we promise day and night- not to stand on the doormat

not to cross any doorway.


~ Gopal Lahiri 

Kolkata, India

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