By Monideepa Chowdhury
The placid mind with its tinge of feelings
indescribable, impalpable.
Just after a storm that hits the shores,
destroys everything—fine, nice, good, not so good.
Afterwards, it returns,
leaving behind all,
to bleed
and then to heal
each in its own way.
The labouring hand,
barely oblivious with its emptiness,
carries on.
Thirty-six, thirty-seven...
and so on.