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.
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.