Vikram Seth, 8 February 1990
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...