Sankha Ghosh

That night as I turned homewards,
in the heart of the city
scores and scores of nameless tombstones broke through the mist;

at first they seemed
to be rows and rows of kneeling nuns,---unmoving,
crystallised in prayer;

in the winter breeze
the world trembled guilt-laden to the fragrance
of the eucalyptus;

but then
the mist became a wall,
prayer turned to reproach, of those white stones,

smooth, epitaphless; as
I turned homewards.