Changing Seasons

Changing Seasons

Written by Tathagata Banerjee


It rained a little today…

Some water drops are still left on my balcony. 

I’m making friends with the afternoon sun rays

And my palm is full of clouds that

Have always only collected melancholia. 

Grief is grief-stricken,

Blindness crawls through the window pane,

And accumulates on the porch

With the meaningless bravado of a winner

Returning from a bloodthirsty battle.

Ghalib, your mirror collects dust still, poet

It feels good sometimes to just willfully

Mistake old emotions with something akin to love

Like Van Gogh, I’ve painted abstract imageries

On a nostalgic canvas.

My front yard is drowned completely.

I’ve never met Shakespeare in my life.

In the middle of the day,

Like sleep, the practice of

Trying to stay oblivious wraps me around.

Silence. This is nice.

Evening runs in. The meadows are under water.

Old telephone reminiscences about some stories

That only it had known

And follows dusty roads that lead to

An abandoned tramline

“We have to cancel the Christmas plans this year,

Something important came up. You understand…”

Conversations end. Roads end.

Busy city becomes a habit, slowly

Paper boats are floating in the stagnant water. 

Like a blind person who’s desperate to find

A hint of light,

I throw my arms all around, in an attempt

To be able to touch Sartre or Kierkegaard.

Someone calls out from below,

“How is everything?”

I dive deep into the muddy waters and then,

Stand up and say, “Ghalib, I’m not well.”


Tathagata Banerjee
Tathagata Banerjee

A lover of poetry and short stories, Tathagata also writes sports related articles and reviews on books and movies. 

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: