
The River Runs Dry
A Poem by Viraj Nayar.

“Words, words, words.”




“It’s quite fine, you suddenly notice—the panoramic view, the Calacatta marble, the artwork, the baby grand. It is what you’d always wanted, but you don’t cherish it one bit.”




“But what he felt now, this chill of delight, this yearning after something that maybe he would never see again—was it not the richest thing he had?”
