Lara's theme is playing somewhere, the recurring Siberian blizzard returns ever again, Dr. Zhivago's eyes have turned suddenly my eyes looking the far receding figures, straining the last glimpse, through a broken window. Boris Pasternak is only me, an erudite galaxy had also once overtaken the summer hot winds of Old Delhi when I had suddenly lost you in a bylane of another summer. Pasternak and you are no longer memories since then. Searching is the sun going down in many distant horizons, again. © Amitabh Mitra
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