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Poem

she is standing 
on the sill of the door, she is waiting
sight on the end of the going away road
for the postman, she is waiting
 
o yellow envelope
you are coming 
hand by hand
the torn old bag carries you

o yellow envelope
you are coming
under the lamp-post
by the day, by the night
by the cycle, on the foot
through summer to a rainy day
through various village field

the Postman touches your skin
take a while and reads your address
at last he reaches and gets your destination 

look, she is still standing under the moon-lit
standing, breathing, crossing longest wink
a dawn crow is cawing
but the yellow envelope comes to her with tears!


-April 23, 2019, Chattogram

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