—Kolkata, India

The first, thin crack of light
beneath the edge of the blind
seeping, crawling into a new day.
Through the labyrinth of poplar branches
the shy, first rays of sunlight gleam.
Hesitant, strong only enough to beseech,
as yet no imperious fire.
The tangled heap of sheets,
your imprint now there again?
Feigning sleep, no lover of light or lark,
your first sun was always halfway
climbing up the sky behind
the grey tower blocks.
That was your new day.
The first breath of pale, pink petals
of light beyond the river,
dancing pinpricks floating downstream,
coils of smoke, rising like incense
from the ashes of the funeral pyres
along the banks, were the stuff of
dawn myths and legends,
a beauty you never saw.
Like night workers going home,
you loved darkness and the curtained room.
Like lovers, you cursed that light
which marks forever
the end of night's enchantment.
Already the clang of trams,
the cries of street traders,
puncture dawn's silence.
That time when alchemists
scatter a few moments
of precious, golden light.
You often slept till midday arrived
with all its heat and passion.
Wherever your ashes carried you,
may the dawn forgive
those tangled sheets
and the light break,
somewhere.