Shamasis Bhattacharya

One summer evening, the river strolled in silence.
Guided by my hand, we trudged along —
Me and I,
Jointly striving towards a mutual aim:
To bridge the gap of twenty one furlong.

Amidst our solitude and pale desertion,
The innocent river flowed, unaware of its divide.
Its currents, with their own intent,
Transformed desires into a steady, measured pursuit.

Facing the river, I peered through my veiled eyes:
There, on the distant shore, stood I — naked and unwise.
Shouting into the void, my voice found no echo;
Waving, yet failing to see my own reflection.
Something kept us apart:
The unknowing, inadequate river.

Years have rolled by in unison,
And now we grope in darkness like strangers.
The true mark of a hypocrite:
To remain unhealed by the very medicine of our afflictions.

Yet, a blissful anomaly binds us —
Apart from the stream, we are tethered to the swans.

Together we wake, and together we succumb to sleep;
Witnessing every dawn and every bleak.
Amidst its strength and fragility,
The tides still wash over us.
Compelled, we gaze not but at the looming, monstrous hill.

This river of taboos follows its customary path,
Yet we were born on blindly opposing banks.
Here, the distance is meaningless than meagre —
No renegade ship or skimpy boat to bear us home.

In a final bid to reach myself,
Beneath the covert of the willow's weeping branches,
I grasp my quiver,
Resolve at last:
To tread across this hollow, unbeckoning river.