In me a child was raised,
in me a child drowns.
Flung so far deep into the water,
That the surface is a misty cloud.

Its first steps marked my scope
The last steps do not leave a trail.
The son I lost to the waves,
The last I had, the last I knew.

Big bright eyes, the deep blue sea.
First words, a distant memory.
Building dreams on the beach.
Each demolished in pride and pain.
That little terror in my womb.
Fate's play.

The child I carried in my heart
The playful kid that I was.
Last goodbye, my son.
For I have stopped playing for good.

In me a child was raised,
in me a child drowns.

Sunday morning, pit-pit patter on my window panes
hot beverage, blurred vision
old gramophone playing in the next room.
Oh, how she loves music!

40 years of marriage, her hair still smell like fresh jasmine
broken glasses, shallow pockets.
Her radiant smile, wet hair
I sniff the jasmine in the air around.

Love marriage, college affair
Love letters, and library meetings.
old days, fresh memories.
She peers out from behind the door.

Her wrinkled skin, mine too.
Her lips part as she hums along to
old gramophone playing in the next room.
Oh, how she loves music!

Someday you feel as though you are the last leaf of the autumn’s being
And, the slightest whiff of the wind would ruin the season for all.
You feel that the entire world is woven in the designs on your skin
So intricate, so compact and yet so burdensome, you’d fall.

Grimy, wilted, the worn-out leaf
You were picked upon by the birds on the tree.
Severed as you jump out of the lap of the once lush green,
Floating in the dusty gust was another misery.

Rueful yet rebellious, you longed for wings.
Cos waiting for you in a dark, far-off corner was the gorgeous spring.
Denuded lands could offer only so much cover.
So as the days grew darker, fearful became the vernal queen.

On your tiny back you bear the brunt of sins of your land
Your gait exudes the weariness, the heart exudes the desire.
The infallible falls but never does he fail.
From the endless scars on your body leaks the vengeful ire.  

You were after all, the last leaf of the fall,
the last synapse to sanity, the curtain to the wonderful show.
Your pace slowed down, and each time the mercury rose,
Spring died a little.

From the day the magic of words grabbed your pen,
You have had an ink, an ink that settles any tumult inside.  
Your scarlet ink blots the pages,
Very much like what it does to a million minds.

From the day you’ve learned to walk, you’d rather dance
You’d rather stumble than just tread those awful paths.
Despite the flightless bird that you are, you’d rather fly.
You’d soar higher, for your heart would set the limits and not the sky.

From the day you recognised colours, you’ve been painting the town red.
The canvas has never been blank, even if your life’s been but colourless.
For what are palettes to a mind with such torrent of emotions
Your fears formed the blackness in the painting, your liveliness too garish for the sight.

From the moment love tugged at your heartstrings,
You’ve been but singing all the while.
You’d rather sing without notes than in a voice that would tell you’ve cried.
Your emotions so melodious, you’d drown somewhere softly in the shallow sky.

From the moment you knew of movement, you’d rather run.
You’d run from place to place, all the responsibilities shun.
It was on the day when the drops of sweat smothered your own face,  
and your mind was sore, that you realized *life was not another game.