Like a gush of wind,
She jostled her way in,
With no forewarning,
And without any early signs.

And before his oppressed self could negotiate,
The wound,
that dried a while past,
Abraded with vigor.

He tried putting the stanch,
But the scruple he had,
Further deteriorated the lesion,
Beyond his reckon.

But all this while his worry was,
Neither the wound,
Nor the abrasions,
But the torrent,
he was left to face for a lifetime to come.

Copyright © Shantanu Baruah