First Published on: Pandemic Diaries
Themes: Existentialism, Illness, Despair
The poem was written on one of those lonely cold dreary nights in which you fear you have eaten a lot and you have urinary tract infection, and it is very cold and there are only walls.
This is going to be a long night. There’s
No sleeping tonight, There are no owls,
Just a bare pink room screeching from
All sides. And a headphone and a smart
Phone, to stare into. There is nothing,
Except for an itch, in the urethra.
This is going to be a long night. There is
Nothing. Really. Literally Nothing, except
For a few words. The world is small and
The trees are dead. And the winter is
Suddenly gone, And the warmth of the
Room suffocates. Outside? There is no
“Outside.” And outside, a few dogs
Are quietly wailing a dirge of hope
For me. That the itch will go soon.
And a new sparkling stream will
Take its place. But the night —
It will remain.
In my memories. In this poem.
Even when the dogs are dead.
And the stars are gone. And
The sky is glittering with the
Sun. Without clouds.
This night will be watched.
And there won’t be a day
For it to shrink into.