Sometimes my mind turns dry and numb.
The temperature of reality feels colder than ice.
My health is still in place, and poise returns.
The body moves, moves, and the eyes look
This way and that, who is there, who is not.
But I hear the ticking of the clock inside me,
How did its hands get so fast?
Before, the days never ended, now
Months, years, decades end in an instant.
I can't hold back the hands of the clock,
Nature owns the right to stop them.
I confine my mood, the vain inner cry,
I manage myself somehow.
I watch a new series on Netflix, or write this poem.
This is how I speak my mind, there is no other way.
Sanjib Basu 