Poetry

For Her

For her, I’m just a cent, not a dollar,

Even without me, her world would be the same,

Who likes to savour a constantly downpouring night?

When she’s comforted under the cloudless night of a full moon?

                                                         

And a thousand songs can never hold her back,

While each screams a thousand new tales,

Tales of the morn, night, and distant galaxies,

Where we could’ve perfectly dwelled.

                                               

For her, I’ll be an unfinished story,

Will space and time wither that down too?

She knows better, one day she may find me, like a lost penny on the road,

That’s why she’d rather not cross paths easily, but keep me as a token of fortune.

                                               

And a thousand Arabian Nights stories might sound too dry to her,

While each draws a thousand new dreams,

She’s all too human, and yet all too tender, too royal,

That she’d never need me, after knowing me well.

                                               

Well…

For her, I’m just an unfinished novel,

For her, I’m just icy-cold shards of snow,

For her, I’m just a sad, old clown,

I wish, I wish, she did know.

                                               

~Soubhik Chakrabarty

Kolkata, India 

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