☛ Submission for October, 2024 issue (Vol. 5, No. 2) is going on. The last date for submission is 30 September, 2024.




-         Gopikrishnan Kottoor (India)


It was dusk.

I was sipping coffee,

Eating the cold bread

Mother had packed along with my books.

There she was by the window

Beautiful as she was always to me,

Her miniature breastpin upon her heave, gently silvering.

The twilight hit it

And the little Christ glowed all red.

The needle fell from her hands.

She turned to me and smiled,

Gently rose, and came back with a magnet.

In the small darkness

That seeped by the hours

We searched all over the floor

Until the needle suddenly clutched its iron,

With a deliberate hug

From quiescent eclipse;

Just as now, her eyes

Strips across my face

Foraging for me, as though I,

Her small needle,

 lay lost somewhere in   hiding;

A silver drop that she'll never again find

Turning me deeper than Christ in her eyes

As the bend in the twilight


The last of the colours  of  evening.