Letters from Exile- IV

I woke up at 2 a.m. with a start.

It was raining outside—birds

were angry, the streets full

of fire-engines —and I thought of you

after years: where are you now,

and how are you living, so far away,

with your black and white t.v.

by the window that opens

up to tea stalls, your single-bed

in a square apartment, walls

calendared with gods and goddesses

all the way back to nineteen

ninety-six. Tell me, my beautiful

loss, my hyacinth, how are you living

in the valleys of Dehra,

in that house you have made

with a young man you love.
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There is something so beautiful yet spare about these lines- 'my beautiful loss, my hyacinth'- it's ageless, a piece of the writer's soul, yet evokes such ordinary, everyday images. I used to read this poet's blog a long time ago and he is pricelessly talented.