The house seems sterile without your presence
A collection of beds, furniture and photographs
Idling lazily without any objective or purpose
Without any life, like a carcass

The radio plays the usual FM channel
Your favourite, my favourite, our favourite
Yet the tunes seem listless
The music totally soulless

The servants move around the house
Dutifully doing their chores
Yet there is no anxiety in their gait today
No urgency in their tongue

The house plants you care for
Crane their leaves every now and then
Towards the direction of the main door
Anxiously waiting for your footsteps

The house is strangely silent today
Strangely forlorn and crestfallen
Patiently waiting for the hour
When it can become a home again

Subir Chakraborty / 31st March 2019