Here are some broken lines, soaked and fermented in a city. Call them what you will-a scrapheap of reverie, monologue, dialogue, remnant, remainder. They nip at the mythic crow of Calcutta: its ancient mariner, the chronicler of its many lives. These 'fragments' are markers of time past and present, in a city that the writer touches and watches incessantly. She leaves it always to come back; its tales turn, but do not die. Close ones die, intimacies...
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Poetry