By Srinjay Chakravarti

The windowpane is misted
by the breath of ghosts.
Faces crowd and press on it
from the outside.
The moonlight makes it a mirror
with two faces:
but it reveals more than it reflects.

The glass is spectral
with hauntings of the past,
forgotten faces no one can recognize . . .
The words they speak
opalesce on the window
as the night drips luminously
into the garden.

There are whispers
on the glass tonight,
but what is left unsaid
is much more frightening . . .