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by Jagari Mukherjee
(Kolkata, West Bengal, India)

It was many years ago
That I walked on a road
Which snaked through the mountains
With my companion, a Walkman.

It was not a barren world –
The hillside was pink with blushing cherry blossoms,
And the slopes covered in flaming orange groves…
Women went about with woven baskets to pick oranges
And gave me a few for free…

As the sun went to sleep,
The moon looked down upon pine trees
And fell in with my mood when
I listened to love songs…

And now, the medieval age is upon my heart,
And I do not expect a renaissance…
I haven’t seen cherry blossoms or orange groves in ages…

And the moon only reminded me
Of the absence of pine trees…
Except one pine cone on my table
In my reading nook, where I keep writing
In my pink-and-orange faux leather journal.

That which was once my daily life
Is reduced to a little souvenir cone…
The romantic songs have fallen silent,
Because I never listen…


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