On the sofa, laid neatly out
on the red-cement floor,

now shining ancient and distant
under habitual feet, I sit

without a word, and beg for
songs that wouldn’t end.

Where does one song end
and another begin?

Here, it seems there are
no ends nor beginnings.

Everything seems to arrive
from a place I’ve only imagined

during interludes between
waiting and arrivals.

Someone, caring little for
the songs floating in the evening air,

hungrily lists down
love-songs once sung by voices

who had their hearts
on the wrong side.

I have this need to talk, but my voice
is somewhere, somehow, interrupted by

invisible voices of angels singing.
I hesitate, overwhelmed by

the songs filling the luminous air.
The songs are there. I can hardly breathe.

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Bibhu Padhi has published eleven books of poetry. His poems have appeared in distinguished magazines throughout the English-speaking world, such as The Contemporary Review, The Poetry Review, and more.