Dead Poets

The cement footpath was stained in sweat,

Stench of urine and smoke,

Honking horns,

The dilapidated city with its modern wonders.

I walked in through the wooden door,

Specks of dust flying under my shoe,

He shines a toothless smile,

"How may I help you?"

The old man asks in a gurgling voice.

The bindings were old, publications long forgotten,

Dead poets in their black and white glory,

"Let me stay amongst your books till the sun sets",

It smelt like my old school library,

Tea, chicken, unknown stains on the pages.

They feel ancient under my fingers,

Torn, lost,

And it smelt like history with all its bloodshed and victories,

Fallen emperors.

A Bengali translation of Homer's Iliad,

Dostoyevsky crouching alone in the dark,

And I could smell Patroclus' pyre burning,

All red.

Tagore and his volumes of truth,

Dante banished in the dark,

Another world,

My senses tingled.

Too much burden on rusted bookshelves.

Spider webs.

The smell got strong,

My childhood books of dragons have morphed into philosophy,

All paperbacks smell the same,

The nostalgia brought me down on my knees.