By Chaitali Sengupta
Sometimes, a few drops of ink,
create words,
falling in a soothing rhythm,
the ups and the downs,
in a beautiful dance,
of resisting and giving in,
of grasping and releasing,
of dissolving and merging,
of holding each thought
like the newborn drop of rain.
And, sometimes,
the thoughts are like open wounds,
no, they have no words.
Only letters, on their way to self-destruction…
Just like a heap of promises, never kept.
Read it on the pages of Setu
