At night the moon squats

Over these horizons; old

Radios crackle a background score.

Men shake their chillums

At the sky with clenched fists.

In the morning all that remains

Is the solitude of memory.

Years pass by in a blur

But hours,

They swallow eternity.


“And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

     Not shaking the grass.”

-Ezra Pound


Raised in a little room by the trains,

Like them

I am running ever since.

And if arrival is a balm that soothes

What time inflicts

It explains why

I will never heal.


Faces moving around

Speak in a diction I am yet to learn

Vocables clot into

Seasons of silences

That stretch across

For far too long.

I whisper a hymn of inadequacy,

Of resignation, of dreams

Discoloured, like kites stuck on trees

Left out in the sun

For far too long



Don’t worry too much about vision;

And when you dive in,

Hold your breath and shut your eyes

For blindness becomes a blessing

In unexpected places.


For a moment do not forget

To forget.

Conjure up little tricks to hide;

Unlearn what is learnt

And find new ways to breathe.

Listen to the names hissed by a violent sea

And the prayers of a mellow one.

Learn how

Shards of memory turn into salt of nostalgia

On the tip of your tongue.

Murmur secrets in remembrance

And for your own sake


Do not ask why.


Days fall over days

Like yellowed autumn leaves

And the circle is complete.

What drives this constant persistence–

Haphazard attempts to grope and recede,

Grope and recede– commonly known

Laws of physics, chance or an indestructible will?

What fuels this preternatural duality

Of strength and weakness, or wrath and tenderness

With every display of spraying strength

As each wave reaches further into sand

That has not been touched, and recedes

Further back into itself, leaving no evidence.

Foam burnishes copper rocks into

Shapes that have no names, no memory

Each wave crashes, noosing across

In attempts to steal the ground beneath the feet

Hissing reclaim, resist, reclaim, another

Wave crashes against the surface

And the circle is broken.

By Yash Pandit

About Yash:
Yash Pandit is a student hailing from Bombay, India. His work has appeared in various journals like VAYAVYA, Textploit, The Sunflower Collective, Cafe Dissensus Daily, Random Poetry Tree and various other journals.

Processed with VSCO with b5 preset

Artwork by William Mackinnon.

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