We Call It Life Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

I leave.
I return.
But I am never the same
when I come back.

The day — the scorching sun,
the taunts, the admiration —
tear at me, make me weep,
hold me, reshape me
into something new,
someone I was not
moments before.

It goes on —
day after day,
month after month,
year after year.

I change.
I become.

The origin —
where I first began —
is lost somewhere behind me.
I cannot recall it.
I cannot see it.

This is the quiet bargain:
loss for gain.

We call it life.