Poetry by Adreyo Sen


When this house no longer is,

its garden will still persist,

freed from walls that sought

to imprison its mysteries.

In the shade of weeping trees,

wild roses and wine-red leaves

will charm the sky to pliancy,

serenaded by an admiring breeze.


And long after I’ve confided my thoughts

to its silent paths

and joined the fox stilled to prayer

by stone’s gentle artistry,

long after I am a little less

than the longing with which I leave this place,

you’ll wander the kingdom

that was yours

even before you conquered it and me,

and I abdicated with a kiss.


And perhaps those who pause

to look beyond the crumbling walls

shot through with the honeysuckle’s

reckless heraldry,

overcome by a sense of awe,

will wander in.


And perhaps, as on a restless, heartsick day, I have,

they’ll come across a little child,

unsmiling in her purpose

as she caresses the wandering tulips

that pay homage to her quiet wisdom,

or sits on a granite throne

in severe conversation with the ravens,

tempering her admonitions with soft pats

and the beginnings of a smile.

Perhaps they’ll come across you

as you give the setting sun

something of your strange beauty,

the sweet music of your melancholy.

Or they’ll discover you touring your empire,

the wild cat that was your first friend,

sharing in the fierceness of your isolation,

sauntering by your side.



But I will no longer be.

I am readying to leave, to take up exile

in the company of my grief,

though the soft embrace of the rain

and the softer caresses of the sun

will remind me of you.


I cannot bear to stay so close

when I cannot claim

your warmth for my own,

or annex you with my kisses.

I knew you were not mine for long.

Did it have to be so soon?




Adreyo Sen resides in Kolkata, India. He is pursuing his MFA degree at Stony Brook, Southampton. His work has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya, among others.