Shagufta Sharmeen Tania

She remembers the window, A bright envelope opened and gleamed In the dark railway carriage. Its rectangular frame cut back every irrelevant, Decapitated all remainders. Outside an intemperate sky painted everything blue And looked her on the nose.

When I look back to find the definitive moment when my writing habits took root, I can’t find it. It is a distant vanishing point from which everything radiated, or maybe there was not a single point or node from where it all began.