A continent breaks up slowly
And imperceptibly;
Life is an album of old photographs,
The prints are faded and dull.
If only they could make a fresh copy…
But the negatives are long gone.
Questions lurk where answers lingered.
They smile with uncertain eyes.
The wine tastes unusually sour,
And the cigarette smoke is stale.
The stars above waiting, knowing.
The two listen to the silence
Grasping for something to say
But they have nothing. Alas.
The furiously beating heart
Was nothing more than a moment:
The house was built on a cliff
The cliff was toppling, slowly.
Diptesh Ghosh