Listening to the affairs of changing Seasons
thawing ice, leaves its last wet traces …
A memory stops me on a chilly night
holding me by my little finger …
What is night, after all?
Just disappearance of your voice!
I still light my each day
with your last greeting heard decades back;
Bowers of reconciliation
surround the ebony hole around the heart;
Sprinkling handfuls of waters of hope
every now and then is inevitable!
When the few jasmines of affection hold up
the absent-minded west wind on a moony night,
old moments of caressing shower around.
When the pigeon in its nest
turns restlessly towards the other side in sleep,
it only retraces the imprints of your lips on my lids.
The springs of tears that suddenly swell up in my eyes
soak up the inertial Time and say:
In a world that finds no trace of you
well, it might be possible to live,
But, not that easy!!!
.
Nishigandha
Indian
.
- Nishigandha
Image Courtesy: Nishigandha
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