Vikram Seth

I walked last night with my old friend
Past the old house where we first met,
Past each known bush and each known bend.
The moon shone, and the path was wet.

No one passed by us as we strolled
At our sad ease. Though hand in hand
We did not speak. Our hands grew cold,
Yet we walked on as we had planned.

We did not deal in words or tears.
At the dead light we did not rage.
What change had crept through our forked years
We did not have the will to gauge.

The lights went out. Who lived here now,
Paid rent, and saw spring come and go
Lived past the range of why and how
For those who had no wish to know.