Homeless.
At the midnight, when street lights make
chiaroscuro on the face of unknown straggler,
someone raps on the door 'are you home, my sweetheart? '
He stands-like a lonely tree on meditation,
like a wind rustling through the leaves,
like an old refrain 'are you home? '
The sweet pain numbs my heart for a while-
the moon with pale face rises behind the curtain,
someone plays a note of my saddest dream,
a high wind from the sea blows away the curtain-
I stood naked before the night with awful question,
' are you home, my dear? '
poem by Aloke Mukherjee
Added by Poetry Lover
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