By Anish Chatterjee
None will remember the language lost
Or eyes on the shelf that gather dust
You slipped and fell yet scarce could tell
The overwhelming stale of must.
It's a miracle of a heart that plods
Against the weight of nights that toss
Perhaps it feels the end is near
Perhaps it keeps a fateful watch.
None will remember the language lost
Or hands that felt its fingers touch
All of what my words escape
All of what my words seem strange.
It's a miracle of a love that asks
Its name be remembered by none
Like the sun that breaks another day
Delighting the gutterbirds' song.
None will remember the language lost
But I'm thankful that it lived in us
It seems so new in morning light
I wonder what it meant at all.