Before the bombings, I was not aware
That homes, like humans, could get orphaned too.
Built by a wealthy merchant’s wealthy heir,
I’ve held this ground since 1992.
I’ve witnessed nicety, hope during pain,
Devoutness, goodwill, and pragmatic views
In those five souls I roofed who once sustained
Me with dense quicksets, sconces, and bright hues.
They say love’s sown with hopes of its return,
But I had failed to be a loyal friend
That ill-starred night, when swiftly, turn by turn,
Some cruel projectiles brought my family’s end.
The lattices (my forearms) crumpled first,
And then the heavy gambrel roof (my head)
Collapsed upon my sleeping kin— the burst
Of asphalt shingles claimed them on their beds.
But greater is my guilt from treachery;
For now, I’m slave to foes, who triumph, shout
On my own land, spit at our dignity.
Oh, how I strongly wish to drive them out!
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. He resides in Assam with his parents and works for a local firm. His poems have appeared in Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, and Westward Quarterly, among others, and some of his poems are forthcoming in Willow Review and Ekstasis, to name a few.