Sailing Through Ichamati

We are a very old wall, Useless at times. Sometimes forgotten. People don’t want us anymore In need of no repair, History books record tears on our bricks Long languishing hours Smoked around us. Policies and principles ruled our lives When the country was young. Ichamati is the corridor Into things we can design. We are twins Our veins have one blood Even when we are separate souls on map. Note: Ichamati is a river that separates India from Bangladesh.