There is a story to be told,
either we should attempt,
together or keep it a secret.
Pain is the glue that joins us,
the story has different narratives
that won't converge, in all places
hence it is less than joyous.

Joys are but a rainbow till evening,
the rains of happiness are sparse,
                           we still are waiting
the drought destroys everything green,
love is a dying stream in between-
ego trips and never ending pain.

Let us tell the story in one voice,
let go the pain of lost choices,
you should be lying on my chest,
sobbing and I must be  consoling softly,
"Honey, don't cry, it's not your fault or mine"
still you are inconsolable in your grief.
              Then you see my eyes are
              two pools flooding in pain.

Her dark silhouette moved beyond the grilled window
Was she a living woman, an apparition, or a shadow?

In the evening sitting there her head bowed low
I loved to think of her a ghost on the window.

That house from ours was within a stone’s throw
At that time looked remote now only I know.

Her hands they always moved what she was up to
Was she knitting corpses’ shroud I had little clue.

Don’t look at her, mom would say, stay away from her
Her words ran me down the window didn’t seem far.

Quickly I shut my eyes there was no way I could dare
To ignore mom’s caution and had her in my stare.

I went back to my homework not that I much willed
But lessons had to be learnt pages had to be filled.

I heard ghosts could pass through wall anyplace they could be
What if she had stopped her work and come looking for me?

I sat frozen in benumbed fear my courage they all fled
For courage would be of no use when dealing with the dead.

I wasn’t safe alone cried out 'mom' to find her I frightfully ran
*Passed by the house the grilled window but there wasn’t a woman.

Now we are past the age
where fireworks make sense, when,
colours and sparkles mesmerize.

Let us sit down, friend,
and reminisce the wonder nights:
when the moon came visiting
and stood silent by the palm leaves,
the still leaves sang a song
to the passing winds
to the rhythm of dripping dew.

Everything is finished in a moment
here, like the sparkle-***.

Ages pass before we see,
the whirl that follows
in the wake of the Catherine-wheel
of time is in our eye.

Yet a night comes, lit by rows
of joyous lamps, when of long
lost, our soul returns.

That which we sought in objects vain
is forever our own, enshrined
forever behind the throb of sensation
here, is our undefeated kingdom,
closer than the closest.

I've tried to forget
That I love you (I can't)
Ah, these crimes of the heart!