| Wednesday, 07 October 2026 | Print
What shall I call you?
What name still turns your head?
Are you the Atlantic, sea between continents?
Or weather without a season?
I have seen you
walk the crowd in your aloneness
through streets that remember,
through districts that refuse to.
Tell me,
what waits at the end of such wandering?
A great arrival?
Or stone against stone,
learning the language of fire?
The road lifts dust.
The door becomes ruin.
Even old tears,
long past the eye,
return as flame.
And a new name is born.
Is it yours alone?
Or does sorrow
claim its share in it?
The air grows dense.
I drift, half poet.
From far away,
someone keeps calling
orphan...
born of orphaning.
Translated by Faruk Ahmed Roni
Cooyright@Piyal Roy
Posted 5:49 pm | Wednesday, 07 October 2026
globalpoetandpoetry.com | Piyal Roy
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