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[theadwitiyasblog]

You'll see flowers

on a fine morning

fallen on your everyday street.

Fresh, as brewed chicory.

White, like the candles at alter.

Mournful, like the pyre

burning inside you.

You'll choose a few,

and whisper them a song,

carry them in your hand

held close to your heart.

A gift for the death

that lives inside you.

At twilight

when lights yearn darkness

and the day starts to fade,

you'll pick them half wilted,

and press them between pages,

the way you press your sadness

in the corners of your smile.

You'll whisper a song,

and open the flowers

from yesterday;

and only hope

to find new

tomorrow.

[theadwitiyasblog]

August 04 '22

[theadwitiyasblog]

Hiraeth

'Twas April the 30th,

the petrichor of the first fall

still in the air.

Leaves rumbling, skies calling,

grasses had lost the green.

The smell of old roses

telling a bygone history.

A time for farewell

to the season.

So was it for me.

Only this time; forever.

And out of obligation,

I had to visit my roots

where I found myself sane

and still young to reach a shelf,

or question things to Baba

that had no answer.

Rusted gates, broken steps.

Doors that once

threw open upon a call.

Windows, covered thick black.

A lonely bench still stood,

alongside tulsi-vrindavan.

'Saikrupa' as it would, in bold red;

it was Ajji who had it named.

I brush my hand

past the walls to find:

chalked figures that'd stayed,

through the seasons-

cold and warm.

One was Sam and another me.

Birthday twins they called us.

Time separated

but least were we-

somewhere bounded together.

Scribbled, here

and there in the past-

a parallel universe,

like a spilt cacophony.

Painting faces, leaving footprints.

Singing carols door to door.

From braiding each other's hair,

to weaving promises of return.

I take a last glance

by the half vine-covered-gate.

And my human-like-friend

that rendered lemons;

for lemonades and pickles

over blazing hot afternoons.

An old man underneath,

holding balloons of helium.

I turn back to see,

my five year self,

holding Baba's hand.

Running towards them.

Red and blue,

and yellows, a few-

I jumped in exuberance.

"Darling, you want one?"

He asks.

My glasses fogged,

and chaos sprawling my mind;

I take one out of resistance.

And release it.

Another anxious attempt

to question again:

"When are you returning home?"

[theadwitiyasblog]

I step back,

and throw doors open

on a warm summer evening

and let in a stranger

over a coffee.

It's late sunset,

blues still on the brink,

and the twilight birds

reflecting on our cups.

I think to break the ice,

but the coffee's swallowing

my words,

the half brewed thoughts;

all at once.

A girl appears,

out of nowhere,

pink parasol she holds,

humming the vintage song,

that you used to sing

ages ago, at college-

only on few days,

when I'd pass by;

strumming your chords,

"You are the promised kiss of springtime..."

that once raced my heart.

I rethink, but hold myself,

to ask you to sing some.

Because you never get the seasons back

that once hailed in favour.

And so the silence still remains,

between us as strangers.

The coffee being less bitter

than the silence,

I sip some more of it,

and watch you through a hide and seek.

But I get caught every single time,

and maybe,

you smile sipping over that.

My heart still races,

I never knew;

but not the way

when I heard your chords, walked past.

That's what I have lived through-

like a reward,

without your song,

you.

And so I fear

to ask you to sing some.

All the things you are, you are.

And we,

still strangers.