The Unspoken Tomorrow Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

The cattle drift home through the dusk,
bellies heavy with the day's grass,
hooves tapping the lane in unhurried measure.
From every courtyard the conch breathes its low, curling note,
cymbals flicker like small bronze birds
settling the evening into place.

A thin seam of light still lingers;
faces remain legible—
her quiet eyes, his weathered mouth
softened by the last of the sun.
Nothing stirs, nothing hints.

She pauses at the threshold,
looks once—long, wordless—
at the man she has known since she first held his hand,
whose breathing has been the rhythm of her life.
He is still reading a chapter from the Bhagavad Gita.

She says nothing.
Why would she?
The hospital is close,
the ache in her chest only a passing thing;
she will be home before the lamps are lit,
before the rice is ready.
There will be time for words later—
plenty of time.

The door shuts with the small click
of every ordinary evening.

Stars step out, calm and punctual.
The conch falls silent.
The cymbals sleep.
But she never came back.

We who remain
wander the rooms like startled guests,
holding sentences that suddenly have no address,
lips shaped around the last word
she never spoke
because she was certain
there would always be another tomorrow
to speak it in.

Some goodbyes are stolen
by the simple, terrible confidence
that we will meet again
at supper.