now that i'm a bird.
a little broken. wings -- leave it.
now that i fly beyond codes.
beyond races and worries
of drowning into the sky.
sea it is. sky, i think.
now that i gloriously
fail. and cry invisibly. and
it hurts and bleeds to
see worms growing
over an author of ruins.

some days touch back.
like the slow writing of
letters this night. soft they are.
calm, and old. i get the pain
of happiness, that people say.

rare they are. but happens.

one was today.
my nest. the other place
where maybe somehow
my mind lived in love.
of comforts. of peace, though short lived.
but feather.
my creations were loved. cheered.
i first dared to fly.
from that nest.

and i remember it today.

there were times.
they put miles in my eyes
so beautifully.
my old leaves. talks. were
praised bright. though i knew
they were dull.

and i realize it now.

this morning.
the verandah lay still.
my fear it was. my cry it was.
i wanted to escape.
the father, whom i once... leave it.

words choke this night.
i would weep saying the father
who hugged that day saying
'you are a director'. to me. of all souls.
i stand weak in front of him
today.
i write more. i write much these days.
i wanted to tell him.
spend hours telling him what i do,
that the world doesn't know.
neither encourages, nor pats for.

i knew he would listen.
don't tell me wrong, when i say, he loves me the same. even now.
i know he would listen so patiently.
but i neither had the walk
nor the way to confront him
and say 'uncle, i still write'.

(pains of happiness)
--- to a friend's parents.