In the season of liquid afternoons
and embarrassed sun beams
life must seem terrible after the last drink.
Nights overstay mornings
and coffee cups steam with white mists.
Remainders of a foggy mountain side;
the wretched taste of local liquor.
There is a tiny space for old rhetoric beside the full window
looking out into stories.
You can sit there and listen to the world weaving fables.
As evening drops in tiny footsteps
an early morning may shine through the gloom of brilliant lanterns
being fireflies across the steps of the hills.
The beautiful hotel owner, with wide deciduous eyes
and a sad sad smile,
ageing her more than the twenty three of her life,
Have you fallen in love yet?
Little insects fill the yellow light streams of bulbs;
little suicidal things, living for god knows what.
At least they have nothing to learn.
Mists fall asleep before the city.
There is only the nocturnal wings of a beetle
knocking against your window.
As you fall asleep, it becomes another night
knocking over the slanting lights of a hill morning:
Shakya Bose (a poem written for a friend)