A poignant poem by Kabir Deb about the romance and the almost forgotten art of writing letters, that too, when exchanged between lovers.
The letters now live with cockroaches;
They have been read centuries ago;
Love expressed itself in a naked way before her;
And she loved that;
Now her heredity has lost its line;
The letters now demanded justice;
Once they created something;
And now they are dying in a lonely cupboard;
Generations vanished but they lie with the pests;
The pages knew that they are invisible for the ones who are visible;
Languages are now losing their deep identity;
They are fading, like mist fades away from the glasses;
Curves of the letters are more beautiful than the writer;
Yet both are now ghosts
Unaware of the art of scaring;
Emotions of love are their only treasure
A treasure the writer wrote with tears in his eye
And curves on his lips,
Nobody knows how to untie the web through which the lovers once united
The fading leads to the death of the lovers,
Which they had once thought, would be their identity.
Who’s moving in the circle of crippled?
The ancestor’s love or the descendant’s ignorance?
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