the tree swayed,
(in the wind
it swayed, who cared not
for a tree, not for a lonely leaf it carried,
or the dust
that swirled; awareness it only
had for a havoc) unaware.

The storm (that
did pass,
that never lived to regret)
knocked a tree down.

They see a man, wearing saffron,
Sitting alone in the varendah of a broken temple;
I, along with the temple, am a relic to them,
A past,
Significance faded to obscurity,
There to be looked and frowned upon.
They shun my beliefs and question my faith,
"Why do you believe?
How do you believe?"
They take my silence for cowardice,
My credence as foolish.
"I am a dandelion", I say, head high in pride,
"And He the wind that destroys my body,
Makes my soul infinite."
Their laughter demeans me.
Yet I stay strong,
Believe me, I do.

But sometimes,
On beautiful, lonely nights,
I just stare at the rock that you are,
And cry as faith eludes me.

Every morning he'd come and sit beside me,
A beautiful little thing,
Dancing and singing,
His small lips glued to a flute,
Lost,
As if in admiration of life itself.

Sometimes he'd talk to me
In a language I couldn't comprehend,
And I'd litsen -
I'd litsen to his eyes,
Trying to get a glimpse of the universe that lay beyond childish mischiefs,
Of a power too vast to be trapped within mother's ropes.

I watched him leave,
His grief shadowed by purpose,
A smile shrouding his conflicts.
Confusion, pain, longing,
He was prepared for love,
Attachment came without warning.
That evening, he sat beside me and cried.
Just like the child he was.

It was autumn when he left,
And the last of my leaf fell with him.

I woke up in the dark,
To the dismal grandeur of a castle,
Its walls defaced, scarred with beautiful engravings,
Of a past that refused to die.

There was a library,
Dusty shelves full of pages.
The rack of children's books stared,
Smiling from under a layer of dust,
An old diary with a button lock,
Holding secrets too trivial,
Poems too heartbreaking.

The large glass window in the hall looked out of a train,
Huge mountains and rivers reduced to fleeting memories,
Or faded polaroid pictures.
The sky, like a true friend,
Caught in the train's plight.

The waking up was a dream,
The castle, a head,
And I the sad traveller,
Confused in the present,
Smiling and broken in the past.

I was visiting her after seven years.
Seven years...
Has it really been that long?

I looked at her for five full minutes,
She looking back at me,
Neither of us saying anything.
"You look exactly the same", I said.
She really did.

I told her that our son had his thirteenth birthday last weekend,
And how he was now almost as tall as I was.
He might be a trouble for the ladies, I added.
She remined quiet.

I stood for a few moments longer, watching her.
Searching.
For what?

I bid her my goodbye,
A single tear drop betraying my somber smile.
I quickly brushed it away, lest she sees it.

Barring the grass,
She looks exactly the same,
I thought,
As I slowly walked away from the cemetery.

Every morning I wake up to you sleeping beside me.
Your small frame engulfed inside the huge blanket,
Your hair carelessly spread over the pillow,
A few strands covering a part of your face.
Your palm under your head, as if preserving it,
Protecting it from nightmares and helping it calm down to a peaceful sleep.
Every morning I wake up to you sleeping beside me.
So I take a moment
And stare at you.