Julia

By Anshuman Das

A windy sunday afternoon, the harbour totters,

raised thumbs, weathered by their lady, the sea, ask for another round. 

The harbour town is frequented often with

such lonely men, living at sea, the smell of salt and beer. 

There she works, laying whiskey down.

and they all love her, they do. 

She’s a fine girl.

Her eyes are lost, a gaze of a thousand gazes

her seashell smile and her wavy garments glide through the infinite

chairs, habited by ghosts of the sea. 

Julia sits on the dock, fixed on the blue armada of ships,

an armada of thoughts, men going to war, sailors dancing,

an understated word or two about the war among them. 

She lays whiskey down. She floats about. 

She’s a fine girl, really, remarks poor Adrian, she could

steal the sailor away from the sea. 

But Julia isn’t watching the sailors, the whiskey, the sweat, the bartender, the folds on her dress, the tears in her eyes, 

she isn’t watching them for her gaze is fixed at sea, the endless grey sea. 

She seems to be seeing more than what we can. 

War walks on. A man she loves and will always love, 

digging his own grave, sleeping in it, with his friends, the rats, his brothers, his captain, his bullets and his gun. 

As he cleans his uniform and polishes his rifle, he remembers his cause, his soil, the sweet smile he cannot wait to see, the soft embrace he cannot wait to feel. 

His uniform shines and he goes out, overcome by frenzy.

The tiny glint under the sun, vexed and tired at the bloodshed. 

Faster than sound, faster than thoughts, he falls. 

The ship finally comes, Julia’s eyes snap back to reality. 

She runs, like a child, she keeps looking,

for those eyes she calls hers, she keeps looking. 

And she kept looking, until the sea evaporated, until the trees burned, 

until the docks were reduced to rubble, until the clouds formed,

until her eyes, like clear water, showed colour.

The colour of destruction, the terrifying shake of reality. 

Julia walks forever, she looks forever for the eyes who could only

stand by and watch the glint of the bullet. 

By Anshuman Das