By Goutam Roy

Cry in a Haunted House

Solitude consorts
with whispered shadows,
reigning in the cold, stale air
of the deserted house,
forsaken long ago
by those who fled in terror.

The cry of ill-fated souls,
still echoing,
weaves through the cracked walls—
a tapestry of raw anguish.

They bear the silent scorch
of a lover’s fury—
a wound left by a lost beloved,
a keening of the house’s keepers,
a self-murderer’s final breath.

One storm-darkened evening,
while music danced
and laughter spilled like wine,
the hyenas clawed through flame and smoke—
even children’s screams
snapped in the fire’s claws.

The once-bright house
sank into hellfire,
its mirth dissolving
into ashes and silence.

Now they linger,
trapped between walls,
waiting—
to unbind themselves
from the haunted house’s grip.

An old satchel

The old lays on a wooden plank,
Life is as if an old satchel
Hanging on the cracked wall .
No need of it so it is alone now.
Dust gathers around it,
The man having lost
Vigour stares at the
Wall full of cleft ,bearing
The memory of its early,
Colourful past ,
When also the satchel was
Regularly cleaned by the old
To put money .
But now it ruminates
It’s youth with his master,
They only sighed now
For the days left behind.