Let Calcutta in oblivion melt.
The abode of nightingale is bare, and flowered frost congeals in the gelid air. Effulgence of a solitary ray is coming in through the shutters; surely, the winter has not made a comeback? Moths and shadows stick to the East. Perhaps, its time for the Western hemisphere to absorb the warmth of the pink fireball. Mine is not the kingdom.
When the city surrenders its soul to dust, and its voice drowns into the recess of memory, must the remembered perished be? Years, piling up on years, make mountains. The horizon, trembling with visions of Johanna, glares at my incompetence. I only avert my eyes, to recall a moment lost in torment.
Ah, its too late to be November. You, the phantom spring of paradise, notice, how twilight invades the humming sun-empire, secretly, almost with a touch of ambition.
From the moving wonder of two cities, my slumber turns its strength to impotence. Winter evenings cast shadows on my cold, cold face. I stand here, half-hoping, that you'd let me in.
At the edge of all the ages, I will come knocking at your wee, small door, if only to be a stirring in your still night.
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