I pick up what is left of me.
All day I’ve cut myself and bled.
Suddenly the world is at war:
Everywhere I step is a mine-field,
Everything is wrapped in barbed wires.
I sit in front of my window, pause.
The trenches have taken their toll.
The skirmish has gone too long.
My old Enfield has proved useless,
And I could never use the bayonet.
In my pocket beats your letter.
I have carried it all day, knowing.
It rests, like a grenade, against my heart.
You said nothing: but the dusk spoke
With a sadness akin to your voice;
I know what it says, but I wait.
One last long puff… I pull the pin.
Diptesh Ghosh