The Sun I Know Doesn’t Set This Late.

By Sreejit Datta

To toil beneath a strange sun – a star

Different from the one

That found me wake every morn,

Peeping thru’ the slits on wooden blinds;

Unsettles me – I sit an extra hour

Waiting for him to set beyond the line.

The new star I live with does not notice me.

It’s an indifferent stranger – unlike my sun

Who rose east of our gate at five;

And set between six ‘n’ six thirty –

Give or take a few minutes.

But this one is a different star,

Not the sun I know.

It’s a thing with a dullish hue – warm but pale.

I call out to Him; I say:

We could be friends, you know!

The New One blinks and emits a dull glow.

To the New One I make petitions:

There are ablutions to offer,

Hymns to be sung,

Prayers to make; all before

Eight of clock.

The New One blinks and fades.

I long to live under my homely Sun –

Take me back to the star I knew.

By Sreejit Datta