poem: The Bow of the Wind by Dweep Sarkar All around—clouds, blue with sorrow, A sudden bow arrives, hissing through the air. It leans close, whispering to my chest, And the veil of my heart shreds into silence. On my lips, patterns of fire are etched— Not the crude ember of a cheap smoke, But the tender burning of a wick, Slow, enduring, consuming. Still, I have carried this for years. Who knew—