Special Section: Ritu Kamra Kumar

Ritu Kamra Kumar

Under the Watch of Quiet Lights

Streetlamps stand like sentinels,

gold-throated guardians of the hour

when the city loosens its grip.

An azure horizon thins to ash,

clouds—cottoned confessions

hover, hushed, undecided

The road exhales, emptied of haste,

a ribbon of restraint

asking nothing of passing feet.

Windows glow with borrowed lives,

faces framed in glass,

learning safety, fearing silence

The night collects its fragments

faded footsteps, forgotten faces

and lays them gently on the street.

Even shadows behave here,

leaning lightly, learning stillness.

The lamps do not hurry the dark;

they host it,

teach night how to breathe.

Cranes pause mid-sentence,

wires whisper old prayers,

trees tremble with unspoken knowing

Non-living listens

Living forgets how.

Ambition sleeps uneasy indoors,

while patience walks the pavement,

slow, steady, sufficient.

If light can wait without wanting,

if roads can rest without regret

perhaps hearts, too,

can unlearn their noise

and arrive, finally,

at a quieter kind of courage.

***

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Setu, December 2025