New Year: The Last Sip Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

The last sip—
light liquor,
yet fragrant.
Was it Darjeeling?
It felt like… something unnamed.

A still picture on the wall:
a boatman on a narrow rivulet.
A calendar spills red—
rose, or tulip?

We had been to Keukenhof.
Counted tulips there.
Foolish of me.

Blue sky—
rare in Holland,
and colour spread on the ground.
Beauty, without measure.

Do I add or subtract?
Or simply feel—
taste, flavour, sound, music?

Tonight,
I choose immersion.
Silence, deep and complete.

Taste.
Fragrance.
Beauty.

Eternity
arrives
without a number.

— New Year ✨