As if words are the traitor
Who none shall speak about-
Standing staunch in silence,
Like the LED street light,
Waiting for a storm,
To be bent over and crushed.
There are but narrow margins and spaces,
In it she hopes to convey,
All that her squiggly handwriting cannot;
The words above and below are smudged
Like the newspaper on a monsoon morning.
The paper that bares scents,
Hopes to find his spirits pleasant
In times of prosper and good,
Ticking like his imported Swiss watch,
Wound to the second like his heirloom clock.
In verses, she proposes,
And in meters she drapes
Her somber thoughts-
Like clothes out in the storm,
They are too damp to be worn,
And are left to dry,
Like the dripping kajal beneath her eye.
Slowly, the turmoil within boils over
Deliberately like milk at a new home,
With dedication, a hope, a reverence;
Alas, all she had was an address,
A door number, a street name,
In a cemented city far away,
Unknown but for a pincode.
With a flurry, she writes a last line,
Burning her misery with unsaid words, sublime.
With her fury she signs her name, to last,
And sticks stamps to be tarnished by postmarks.
In the little red box it went,
And was cleared at 11 am.
As she sat on the wicker chair,
She realized, his name she had forgotten.
X-X-X
Breathless he reads,
Panting like the strays on a hot summer day,
And there are no shades, none to cool,
To contain, the scorch of the words, maimed.
The trains in his town, don't run beyond,
And the last bus stop was a dead leader.
His flight of hope was a dream,
Which like the brinjals, became dearer.
All he could do was write to her,
With more lines than verses,
Stuck up and bound,
Like wishes at the temple tree.
His name, he left unsaid,
Down the beaten road, he led
Their day after tomorrow,
Shoved it into the muddied box and left.
X-X-X
From afar came words,
Crashing like the waves on a full moon,
By a man in dirty khaki it was delivered at noon.
She peeled the cover;
Its words pierced,
And she wailed like a child
On its first birthday.
His name she didn't know,
The phone number, didn't exist,
He seemed like a dream,
Bright and burning like the silver screen,
Alas, a power cut,
And now, nothing remains to be seen.
Who none shall speak about-
Standing staunch in silence,
Like the LED street light,
Waiting for a storm,
To be bent over and crushed.
There are but narrow margins and spaces,
In it she hopes to convey,
All that her squiggly handwriting cannot;
The words above and below are smudged
Like the newspaper on a monsoon morning.
The paper that bares scents,
Hopes to find his spirits pleasant
In times of prosper and good,
Ticking like his imported Swiss watch,
Wound to the second like his heirloom clock.
In verses, she proposes,
And in meters she drapes
Her somber thoughts-
Like clothes out in the storm,
They are too damp to be worn,
And are left to dry,
Like the dripping kajal beneath her eye.
Slowly, the turmoil within boils over
Deliberately like milk at a new home,
With dedication, a hope, a reverence;
Alas, all she had was an address,
A door number, a street name,
In a cemented city far away,
Unknown but for a pincode.
With a flurry, she writes a last line,
Burning her misery with unsaid words, sublime.
With her fury she signs her name, to last,
And sticks stamps to be tarnished by postmarks.
In the little red box it went,
And was cleared at 11 am.
As she sat on the wicker chair,
She realized, his name she had forgotten.
X-X-X
Breathless he reads,
Panting like the strays on a hot summer day,
And there are no shades, none to cool,
To contain, the scorch of the words, maimed.
The trains in his town, don't run beyond,
And the last bus stop was a dead leader.
His flight of hope was a dream,
Which like the brinjals, became dearer.
All he could do was write to her,
With more lines than verses,
Stuck up and bound,
Like wishes at the temple tree.
His name, he left unsaid,
Down the beaten road, he led
Their day after tomorrow,
Shoved it into the muddied box and left.
X-X-X
From afar came words,
Crashing like the waves on a full moon,
By a man in dirty khaki it was delivered at noon.
She peeled the cover;
Its words pierced,
And she wailed like a child
On its first birthday.
His name she didn't know,
The phone number, didn't exist,
He seemed like a dream,
Bright and burning like the silver screen,
Alas, a power cut,
And now, nothing remains to be seen.
