Far in the mind; out of one's reach,
The unspoken words perish.
Amongst the bustle; in the run,
The surviving thoughts soon vanish.
At the nature's bed; in solitude,
Revived are the thoughts that breathe.
Amidst the green; under the sun,
Like the birds & butterflies that are freed.
Far from the sight; as bits and pieces,
The ones that remained a mystery,
Are elegantly weaved; as renewed memories:
Recreating the history.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
1.
i was five when i first played hide-and-seek with you
it was easy then
the closet
the kitchen cabinet
the perfume bottle on my father’s nightstand.
maybe i just knew where to look
maybe you let me win.
2.
the underside of my bed has been stuffed with boxes of books and there’s no longer any space
i push aside the ones i don’t read.
in the night
i hear the creaking of old cardboard beneath me
i close my eyes, and smile.
3.
my body grows in all directions and i am filled with empty rooms
i panic and begin to name them
living, dining, prayer, bed
i leave a spare key under the carpet outside
my mother says it’s not safe.
(‘anyone can come in.’)
4.
the living room spills into the kitchen spills into the bedroom spills into all the boxes that make up my tv stand
life crowds around me, so
i stay out as late as i can
and lock myself in when i am home.
i don’t know that i’ve lost my spare key
i don’t care to find it.
5.
my father calls to ask how i am.
i tell him about the boxes, the crowding, the solitude.
he asks: are you praying?
i remember a game i forgot we were still playing.
6.
okay. so maybe it’s my fault.
but you didn’t call back either.
and how was i supposed to find you
in this city of millions?
everyone says they’ve seen you but they’ve all got different descriptions.
and all i’ve got is a prayer mat limp from neglect.
7.
is it even hide and seek if you’ve been blindfolded?
8.
listen: i tried.
i scoured the earth for you
learned languages
unlearned history
i was even swallowed by a whale
yet even in the dark, i could not find you.
9.
my mother tells me a story of brewed tea leaves, a mu’ezzin, and a yawning morning.
10.
i unfold my prayer mat, and sit
and try to remember.
We have failed, haven't we?
Another wildflower
Plucked to be crushed,
Defeated, left to be dead
In the midst of a spring
Wandering about in full glee
Thundering colours of a wondrous world
That might have lost its sheen
On something - something -
We failed to understand.
On something - something -
I hope we do not always fail to understand.
Countless stars gleaming back at us
Was the perception of beauty,
A decade ago,
When you held my hand
And asked if my skin could shine
With some treatments
I have not heard of,
Nor did I have the heart to hear of.
We have failed, haven't we?
I thought I failed you,
Being born the wildflower I was -
Yellow-brown to the core,
While you 'dazzled'
In your whiteness
Like the sea shining with
Glitters on the waves
That passed by our feet
Every instance of our judgement
Not matching from the core,
As if my yellow-brown feet
Made the salty water a little murky.
I thought I failed you,
Being born the wildflower I was -
With my Mongoloid features
On my face
Flattening the roundness
Of the globe's standard of beauty;
I stood there
Watching you play football
With eyes that dimmed
With a smile that gleamed
Though with thin lips.
My hips though, weren't flat like my nose,
They rose to be curves
Like a mountain prostrating!
Objectification came in
Like a hurricane in the middle
Of a desert
Uncalled for. Uncanny. Uncomfortable
That it was,
I thought it was my fault -
Being born a wildflower I was.
Yellow-brown, flat nose,
Dimming eyes, prostrating curves -
I had failed you.
I had failed myself.
I had failed what Beauty of Spring
Stands strong for.
I was, after all, another wildflower
Growing in your backyard,
To be crushed, left to die,
Defeated,
For that Valentine's Day
You told me
I am not the flower that "shone" the fairest,
I am not the flower that could
Smell the Indian thalis well,
I am not the flower that could
See the seashells at our feet with my monolids,
I am but the flower
That could wrap up in hourglass dresses of pleasant shapes of beauty.
We have failed the wildflower
Inside me,
Haven't we?
Yet we go ahead and say,
"Hey! Spring is sprung
Let's enjoy the beauty
Of the world
Set by the yardsticks
Of photoshopped curves
And extended hair
And filtered skin
And magnified eyes.
Let's look for the flowers
We grow in our pots
And leave the wilderness to die
In the winters of judgement."
Yes, we have failed.
We have definitely failed.
For the wildflower in me is lost -
Lost in the rat race to "perfection"
While I never wanted to be in the race,
Yet the world judged me in this case.
Startled by beauty created by others,
I have failed at bringing my creation to the table.
Oh, the stereotypes!
Oh, the objectification!
Oh, the "normal" and the "abnormal" norms!
Oh, the hysteria, the hysteria!
The new normal changing
Every decade,
The old being tossed into a carton box
Every decade.
What on this earth
Is the new normal?
What on this earth
Is the perception of beauty?
What on this earth
Are the measures to measure my beauty -
Or the lack of it?
We have failed, haven't we?
Another wildflower
Plucked to be crushed,
Defeated, left to be dead.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Upon the onset of spring
And the spring of my childhood ,
Tons of vibrant leaves you’d diligently bring,
Resting on your earthly wood,
Chimneys and cuckoos would divinely sing.
My enchanting Gulmohar tree
Made a perennial promise to me -
“When times are tough,
Morale is low,
My branches who materialised rough
Shall embellish sanguine and mellow”.
Your primordial existence in the universe
Once commanded unparalleled might,
But now as I jot down this verse
Tears of sorrow hinder my sight.
“Oh what good are humans’ eyes for
Which lay devoid of your motherly light !”
My Gulmohar tree
Made a promise to me-
Even when the devilish autumn rolls by
And her yellow-red leaves flee,
She would grow and harbour myriad of fruits,
Forever beaming her bountiful glee.
Its been plenty years
Since you heard my long talks.
Never batting scornful eyes,
Never judging,
Always listening while I listened to those rustling leaves
That blew from hot summer streams.
Gulmohar tree
The one who broke their promise, is me.
I'd vowed to not let anyone cut
Your presence away,
Day and night will your best bud
fight for your roots to stay.
As a friend , I’m heartbroken
As a living being, I’ve failed .
I ought to clench the childhood tokens
That you had saved.
Gulmohar
I remember the promise you made to me-
“When I die and fall,
You mustn’t sprout a hopeless pall.
For death is inevitable, but the spirit continues to sprawl.
From the heavens I’ll watch you grow strong and tall.”
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Yet, it lingered,
a solitary syllable,
A word akin to
a desert illusion,
and a tree that
clings to its roots,
Yet, the crows spurned,
choosing to soar,
towards an
unknown horizon,
Declaring,
"I'm not
forever
a bad omen."
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
The path through the bokal trees
Comes to my mind.
The a plus b whole square days
Come to my mind.
Our math teacher taught us:
a plus b whole square is equal to a² + 2ab + b².
I know our math teachers still teach:
a plus b whole square means
the square of the sum of two terms.
But they forget to tell us:
a plus b whole square means
a unique story of two united lives.
Oh, I still live in the ‘a plus b’ whole square days.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
except all the silence and smile
obsessed in defeat and attempt
devoid of sorrow and sympathy
saturated with criticism ,contempt
disillusionment with mirage
Lost string in musical vague
Fuel mixed with tears of broken dreams
The pulsation of burning life.
On the narrow altar of struggle's fire
Sacrifice suffers with strive.
Building the business of reality
embezzling dream's loan of duality
pick raw threads of hope
how to bind destiny's rope
What special i have after fullest fading of fabulous faith.
Is there any thing left of the traveller exiled from every path?
Two eyes as the waking firefly
In dark night under the blank sky
Where comedy of tragedies is part of pain's celebration
Now life is standing here, a little closer to consolation
Standing in the maze of the Mahabharata of the furious feelings,
Every time adamant, every time fighting and every time sailing.
soaking paper with ink
Is it acceptable as cry?
Words question the pen's
Every what and why
essence of zero and whole of everything
expansion of the existence and beginning
words are unspoken behind the silence
Undefined Crys in smile's demilance
Writing victory over defeats
or lament the rebellion
Sympathies are not acceptable
How to count doubts billion
like paper's money or the scrap inurn
We have learned from life to be stubborn
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
I wish not for the years to come to be full of warmth
I wish not for them to make me whole again
I don’t seek battles unfought
Or victories unearned
Though I do seek the vigor to carry on
These burdens of mine,
To bear arms once more,
To fight and lose, if loss it must be.
But to fight, until it is my time.
I wish not for the years to come to come bearing gifts,
Though I wouldn’t mind a present or two,
It would seem impudent to rely on fortune much longer
Though it would be easier to.
I wish not for the years to come to forge me anew,
I’ve become a man of many pieces,
Some I carry with me,
And some I leave behind.
They’ve made me who I am, the smiles, the sorrows, even days of staring into nothingness.
Though some growth I wouldn’t mind.
I wish not for the years to come to make me forget the ones gone by.
I wish not for them to clean a slate I’ve been drawing on for so long
I’ve drawn with blood, sweat and tears.
I do not wish for them to remove stains of unfinished drawings of old,
They’re just as much a part of me,
Though I do seek, that these years to come,
Would make them hurt less on the eyes.
I wish not for the years to come to make me happy, they cannot bring me joy.
I must do that myself.
Though I do seek someone to share it with,
And I do wish happiness was easier to find,
I wish not for the years to come to make me whole again.
I just wish they be kind
In the vast expanse, I’ll keep up the fight,
With hope as my compass, guiding me through the night.
Though the waters are treacherous, I’ll push through,
In the midst of fear, I’ll find strength anew.
For deep within me, I know there’s more,
Something beautiful waiting on the distant shore.
The waters continue to rise, it’s hard to see,
But my heart urges me on, “Keep going, be free.”
I don’t know what will happen, what’s in store,
Will I find solace on the distant shore?
The waters are relentless, I’m losing my way,
But still, I keep pushing, trying not to sway.
The journey is uncertain, the destination unclear,
Yet, I’ll keep swimming, even through my fear.
Will I reach the shore, or will I meet my end?
In this vast sea of uncertainty, I must transcend.
I don’t know what’s next, what fate has in store,
But I’ll keep swimming, striving for something more.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
My mother tongue is muscle memory between my teeth
But I don’t know how to love him
without reverting to a language
neither of us have in common
//
But when we woke from our slumber
Your tongue spoke a different dialect
Of the language you carved into my mouth
And you no longer understood my yearning
//
My lover’s language feels like foreign defeat on my tongue
Yet I say the words like I’ve spoken them for a millennium
And they sound like they’ve been plucked directly from his larynx
~A series of unfinished snippets // falling out of (the language of) love
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
I'm the wrong chord you played on your guitar
For your lover in the summer of '23
I'm the ugly meteor among the stars
That no one wants to see
I'm the rotten egg among the perfect dozen,
The one you throw away
Please don't break me, I'm already broken
And there's nowhere for me to sail away
Far away, so far away
Do you see me fading out?
There's no other way,
Nowhere to go, nothing to shout
"But you look just fine!"
My screams are muffled, Honey,
confined to my mind's shrine,
Somewhere dark and lonely
I've built this wall around me,
It's not breaking down anytime soon,
I'm burning in my hell, you see,
It's burning like the scorching heat at noon
I'm alone, I'm so alone,
I wish someone would break down this wall,
For all my sins I'll atone
If only someone heard my call
I don't need a Prince Charming,
I don't need a beauty or a beast,
Maybe I'll fall for the Devil's calling,
Touch his outstretched hand at least
I've been good all my life and got nothing
Maybe I should switch sides
I want to feel something, anything
I don't want to hide
Teach me to sin, Devil,
Teach me your ways
Show me how to be evil,
Set my soul ablaze
Maybe I should drown in liquor,
Maybe I should rob,
Maybe I should try murder,
Or maybe I should just sit and sob
But no, I cannot flip like a switch
I'm not inherently bad
Maybe I have a glitch
Maybe I'm driving myself mad
So, teach me to drink; drink the liquor of art
Teach me to kill; kill my insecurities
Teach me to rob; rob bad memories from my heart
Teach me to hit; hit anxiety and be at ease
Or I can think of a million ways
that you can end me
I've learned the error of my ways
Heaven or hell, just send me
It's time to turn my nightmares into dreams,
Time to befriend the monster, Frankenstein I will be,
In this still, black lake I'll freeze,
Until you shove my head in it and drown me
Choke me with your ice-cold fingers,
Scale me like a fish, whip me till I bleed,
Let the stench of my blood linger
A little longer than you need
Chop me into pieces like wooden logs
Throw me down a deep, dark well
Or feed me to the wolves and the dogs
After all, I'm a mere animal
Oh, Devil, these men won't love me
The way you will; fatally
They're far too scared of me
And how I talk of death so casually
Oh, Devil, I can't feel anything, I'm numb;
Won't you love me right and then end me?
To you I will submit, to you I will succumb
I'd rather that than live like this, you see.
Dance with me, take over me
Take my body and soul
Lonely, I'm so lonely
End me and dump my body in a hole
Only stagnant water is still,
And I've been still for far too long
When I see all these pills
I can't tell right from wrong
Please, come, supreme demon,
Touch me, for no one else will,
Teach me to burn like the sun,
I'm so tired, tired of staying still.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Stars die, but no one kills them
Except maybe gravity
With which they struggle to hold themselves still
In their own astronomical spaces
Wonder why the brothers in orbits
Yearn to swallow each other up all their lives
Why these simmering surfaces become brighter and brighter
Only to inevitably return to their original states
Why some take a billion years to explode
Why some remain the dim stellar corpses of their former selves
Nothing kills these giant masses of particles
Only slightly younger than the universe
Except what always binds them in a lethal pull towards each other
What binds them till the end of their lifecycles to rotate in the defined circles
What slowly consumes every last bit of light attempting to escape the horizon
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
One morning, while walking alone in the park,
A thought crossed my mind, igniting too much spark!
My mind asked when would India be a developed nation?
A distant reality, it seemed, due to its extant commotion!
A country whose jewel was once its cultural diversity,
That diversity is now facing a lot of adversity!
With battles on grounds such as religion and caste,
The fire of animosity is spreading at a pace too fast!
With so many political parties fighting for power,
The real issues remain unresolved, making the nation sour!
A country where marriage was once based on love,
That love has now been replaced by money, dowry, and white-glove!
With women being expected to work and look after ménage,
Victimized by domestic violence, she resorts to camouflage!
A country that was grounded on its strong educational scheme,
Unable to focus on practicality, that system is now losing its sheen!
With white-collar jobs still being the first choice of the masses,
Art and creativity take a backseat across all classes!
With less focus on facilities, welfare, and health,
The government now runs on selfishness and stealth!
It seems the nation is engulfed within the claws of its flaws,
A sea change is sought in its regulation and laws!
My mind asks when will India be a developed nation?
A distant reality, it seems, due to its extant commotion!
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
keep your strength
tied tightly to your bones.
do not let it escape
through your tears
and despair
and vanish in a sigh.
you need to hold it close
and feed it
with the thought of you
getting past this, yourself.
people always say
they are going to help.
very few do.
so its prudent
to be your own hero.
your own goddess
and use every fibre
to hold onto that dying strength within
that hasn't been fed for days
with any consideration
for its presence.
pull it out.
look at it.
that mangled shrivelled
ball of nothingness
is your force.
your rib cage
has kept it guarded
from your own thoughts on life.
it shrank
from the darkness of your mind
but it refused to leave.
it will stay
if you just see it.
it needs to be seen
just like everything else in life.
love is demonstrative.
it needs just a nudge
but strength and hope
lie quietly in your vertebrae
waiting for you to call them
for a meal
with despair and tears for dessert.
they will eat that
to swell
and become pink
with fresh blood.
your blood.
and settle in between your eyelashes
so you can see the light.
they will pull back
the curtains of darkness
and clean with vigour
so your mind's room
looks like a new place to live.
call them forth.
dust them out.
fatten them with your mind's
wanderings.
and they will turn out to be
the companions you were seeking all along.
they live inside of you.
and you are their force to survive.
quench yourself
with the waters of
strength within
that has drunk
your tears to live.
call to it.
call to them both.
they always come when you are
ready to fight life.
and my lovely,
they always win.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
I was never really good at writing a poetry, so this one took a little time.
The words were created so that I could write about your smile,
So that I could express, how you made me feel for that little while.
Love, that’s what I hope, and that’s what I ask from above.
You see me sitting and you see my eyes water.
The only thing I thought of, is that I lost my Mr.Right
but its okay because i found myself, and when the times right I will see you again from the right sight.
You were afraid of hurting people who were impossible to replace, but I guess that was not the problem in this case.
Its okay, I understand, you found someone better who lets you be whoever you can. But rewind and see at time did I stop you from becoming the best.
Today I lost you butIi guess it okay because now you’re off duty and I won’t force you to stay.
Im not sad about it, or maybe a little but I guess that okay because I won’t go around and littler. Litter with the pages you gave, because I think that they should stay.
Having good memories will take me back to that place, where you said “I love you, forever and always”
I think you did mean it but the time was wrong, you were in love with the idea of having a perfect sunrise and not a bad storm.
I think i’ll live with that feeling for just a little while long because even when you are gone, I will be surrounded with all the flaws.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
In a world obsessed with beauty,
Where standards dictate what we see,
People often forget to see
The beauty that lies between you and me.
Magazines and TV screens, all show, an image of beauty,
we're expected to know.
Slim and tall, with perfect skin, No wrinkles or no acne, no extra chin.
Long luscious hair, and sparkling eyes,
A perfect nose, and lips of perfect size.
But who decided, what beauty should be?
Why can't we all, just be free?
Tall or short, thin or curvy,
Society's view is often blurry.
Photoshopped bodies on display,
Perfect skin, no flaws to betray,
but the real beauty lies within,
and loving yourself is where to begin.
So, let's break free from beauty's Mold,
embrace our uniqueness,
be bold,
for real beauty is not just skin,
It's the confidence that lies within.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Belief grew in my uterus,
until it ballooned
for months and months
to deliver the harvest
I wanted.
The cycle continued.
Belief grew deeper
like a tree growing;
its roots in me.
From the thinnest strand
of hair atop,
to the the tiniest
twig of the foot imprints.
A construction so solid;
foundation strong,
for the house of life
I always wanted to live in.
Underneath it lay
the crushed fears
conquered demons,
venomous snakes
and squashed vermin.
I watered it everyday,
like a mustard tree growing
into a majestic tree,
Underneath it,
I sat,
in the shadow,
in peace, in light.
A smile from within
adorned my face.
I saw a butterfly
fluttering away,
from the coccoon
hanging from the tree.
So long it took,
but never missed the flight.
Rejoice I did;
bliss I indulged in.
An old chapter closed
forever.
By him; faith.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Dark is an emblem of a silent and serene life
Mostly back home to rest for the next day, a stint of life.
On the contrary, many are there who change such placid nights into vibrant vibes.
Their hearts beat only in the dimness of light
They are just waiting for it to come out from their abides.
Look! Mr.Owl is full of thrill and delight to seek his beloved
who is somewhere hidden in the dense Woods of pine
Longingly waiting for the nightfall to fabricate the endearments every night.
Those Hoots of Love evoke desires in She-Owl’s Heart
She swiftly pierced the veil of darkness to connect her Sweetheart.
Both’s bright eyes are gazing at each other on the black night.
Finally, He-She has started their Radiance life.
On the different side, A moth has only one day of life
He doesn’t want to waste a single piece of time.
Therefore, he delved into the love of light.
And whispered no interference between my admirer and I.
Somewhere far away in the twilight, a pretty girl looking steadily at the gleam of moonlight.
Waiting eagerly for the call, to hear her inamorato’s voice.
The rhythms of her breath expose the yearns that she conceals from the world.
Here, the sea waves are hysterical when the moon shines
The Beams of the moon create a flutter in her body and suddenly she turns into tidal rides
Crossed all the boundaries to muster her Man, despite knowing about the spurious love that he is showing.
Shameless waves, still urging to extinguish the blaze of her deep feelings
However, she realised it was all a lie and started crying on the lonely nights
Her sounds of tears gave voice to the soundless nights.
Such resonating motifs the beauty of night but nobody knows someone’s pain lying behind.
See the other Senophile, only moonlight makes her alive
She blooms in the shimmering nights and calls herself a flower of moonlight.
Her love is unconditional, she doesn't bother about the love of the other side.
Whether he loves her or not, that can’t make her cry.
Unlike, a gorgeous girl always in the realm of dreams
In the attainment of a pristine lover that rhymes with the soul of her.
All of them are the Nocturnal Lovers, Lovers who make dull nights live.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Majestic, mysterious, and mighty.
Some green, some blue, and a hint of purple.
Crowned grey from dawn to dusk,
You offered a symphony, I may have never heard.
An obscure echo and voices from a distance.
A murmur in the wind; of transitory freedom, of vague liberty.
An absolute abyss that you are-
You absorbed me in the aura of your fresh and crisp,
You deluded me, with your grounds unshaken and head unbowed.
Standing tall with heaven as your cape.
You stand taller, taller than the sky.
Like a vigilante- watching and protecting.
Like a father- struggling but smiling.
We’ve cut you, We’ve harassed you, We’ve torn you— apart.
You protected, You nurtured, You watched carefully as we grew.
You shielded.
We overlooked.
Yet, You still stand, head high.
After days of toil, after nights of torment.
Clothed with pines and rustic trees-wild flowers and humming bees.
I tried to follow,
the whistles of some occult bird, the chirruping of some exotic fowl.
Your breeze so calm, it astonishes me.
I could hear you breathe — Or is it just me, still and quiet?
I hear the whispers, the echoes in your ridges.
The silver lining- not on the cloud, but at your foothills.
The stream, that dresses your ground
Like an anklet on your feet,
Pushing through moors, moving the doors.
You make a picture, surreal, strong, and sensible.
THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
Exactly five years ago
I lived in a city of dreams-
the city of my struggles,
quite an imposing brand you'd say
but apt for a girl in mid-twenties.
I crawled against my inertia to move,
dragged outside every day.
At exactly half past eight
with roads being swept
I'd hop on a bus to work
recognize every face in there
perhaps I seemed mundane to them too.
I tried to look for novel pictures
relaxing on a window seat
peeping out to find familiar traces.
Just before a lazy traffic signal
the bus screeched to a halt,
cars groaning more than their owners,
the cacophony seemed unbearable.
A wearied building giggled
at the opposite end and
my eyes paused at a window
marked by mauve dahlias
spraying hope on me.
Their owner, a man
strumming his grey years
watering them with tenderness
glanced once or twice at me
as if protecting his darling dahlias.
I laughed and moved on
forgetting them again.
Then at exactly half past six,
with wearied gleam of dusk
the bus sighed at the same stop.
The dahlias, lilac in shades
proudly beamed with joy.
The owner reading next to them
caught me red-handed
staring at his dahlias
then laughed at
my sheepish grin and waved.
I waved back to the gentle old man
and this became our routine
for the next four years.
On melancholic days
he waved them at me
in joyous moments
he greeted me with a smile.
Then my struggles in that city
came to an end
I moved to another place
forgetting that trend.
This year I visited someone nearby-
the building devoid of laughter
dilapidated with charcoal shades
had been ablaze last year
now abandoned with memories.
I hopped on the same bus
saw the broken window
from where they used to wave at me.
A memoir of my diary in days of vain
now symbolized by a forgotten windowpane,
but I noticed something else
a tendril with a single mauve dahlia
creeping from a moist wall
reaching the old man's broken windowpane.
Perhaps in that corner remained
a fragment of the frayed phases in my journey.