Saturday, 30 April 2016


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


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