The Man Who Fades at Sunset

Time has wrapped me
With its sadness and silence:
I have a dry lung, and a dry mouth
That ache to be whetted with real air and real words
So that the next time I stare at the sun till I go blind
I have something to say

I never meant for you to see me like this
A person who is not a person
But who leaks through air and leaves no trail
An unholy scavenger, forgotten even
By the numb night; its cloak sheeted against my face
And all that's mine to keep
Are the murmurs of the dying crickets

And one day out of many, you'll find me
Pooled dead upon my bed, filled with a
Failing flame of black and gold
Which bears no words and no body
But the whispers of colors, altogether mutilated
And walking in on their last legs

I am ordinary, but painlessly ordinary
And before I go, I have a wish to keep
A single thought that is mine, and mine only
And to have the life left to speak it clearly
A truth, where the words resound like crystal bells
And not stand like dumb monoliths that stare down at me.

 

 

 

By Alaka Halder
Brine Pickles Young Writers' Group
Dhaka, Bangladesh