From the reader, to her poet
No one will ever read your poems. There is no point to
writing any of these.
What do these words even mean? What can they give me?
My days spurn me; my nights are pretty much the same.
After mindlessly wondering through life
I am back in this filthy room.
Do I ever get to see you there?
If not then,
If it cannot return to me my lost voice,
Then, I do not want even to pick up the books you write
For your poems weave on endlessly only around you.
by Shankha Ghosh
To read the original poem
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