I will let the sea recite my poems
and the waves carry my words,
my mouth is sealed
and my eyes cannot talk.
Sands of time haunt me
so does the cosmic clock. I know
time is relative.
I look at the damp red wall
in front of me, some photo frames,
a broken mirror,
a calendar hanging.
The photo frames—
have old pictures with faces,
I don’t recognize, they look happy.
The broken mirror—
splits my reflection into two;
I don’t remember the second one.
The calendar—
has some dates marked,
I don’t remember those dates.
Sachin is a 22 years old filmmaker, screenwriter, and poet from Dehradun, India. He lives in a grave with his companion Mr. Melancholia and often spends time making bouquets of dried roses, marigolds and dandelions.
Litehouse 