Debarati’s evocative poem on DifferentTruths.com captures grief as love adrift—lingering, stubborn, and achingly homeless.
Grief lingers on my fingers
like the last strands of winter,
bidding adieu to a noisy city —
Coarse as the rustle of dry leaves
on cobbled streets.
It settles in the creases of my palms:
a stain that all the
'perfumes of Arabia cannot sweeten'.
I try to bury it, but it pushes through stone—
A stubborn bloom I cannot kill.
So, we sit together in awkward silence,
like patients in a doctor's chamber,
avoiding eye contact.
Like a stranger in a new city,
It looks for a corner to name its home
Only to realise—
Grief
It is just love with no home to call its own.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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