The Broken Bench

The leaves have picked up the hues of straw.
The lulls of the lake and the cry for a thaw.
The skies are greying slowly.
As I watch them all closely.
The frenzied activity of the old town shall come to an end.
But, tell me, what makes you happy my friend.
These waters were the mirrors of the familiar faces.
Faded away in bits and pieces.
The sun was unforgettable, followed us in all places.
All these stills still swim in my eyes.
Sitting in the broken bench, no one else besides
to see the sunlight disappearing behind the trees.
I tuck my hands into pockets, breathe in the cold air.
All the best time we had spent together.
And you can find me right here.

-Arun Bahadur Gurung

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