And this is what true imprisonment is like –
Not stone walls and iron bars
For stone crumbles
Iron rusts away,
And behind them imagination soars free
No. True imprisonment is that of memory.
A walk along an evening beach
As the sun sinks to an orange rest –
Hand in hand in the crowded marketplace
With the stalls filled with brassware, strange rocks and incense too
And nights lying limb-tangled with you –
The shackles that never set you free
Are the light-forged bonds of memory.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2016