Group 3 – Third Prize
A Familiar Place
By Shraboni Biswas
We run, not looking
Back on the place,
The memories, the music of the
Familiar wind through the trees.
Uncertain it is,
Certainly.
In a dark locked room
It is thrown away.
We cannot speak-
No, not a word,
They are coming
One cannot stand up against them.
Do we not deserve?
Look! We have two hands,
Two feet, a heart, a mind.
‘Tis the same as you.
We live.
The strange light,
The innocent fingers
Reach for it.
We can speak again.
The beginning of a new life-
Oh, how we miss
The music of the familiar place.