A poem nebulously arrives at the precincts of mind like in every pregnancy it changes a whole lot of things
A firefly with a drop of oily yellow light so feeble ; but one gets lost in the happiness it brings
I haven't ever known a happiness similar to this. In the days of my childhood, I used to sit in a room opening to the vast green rice fields,
At the sunset, when light fads in to darkness, the gloom that spreads around makes one ask, 'what if the moon wouldn't appear tonight?'
A drop of light appears from nowhere, flies to a bamboo grove, this I couldn't foresee, it turns out to be a firefly, its light pulsating like a coded message, to more fireflies so shy and want the pain of darkness to foster them, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of their wings flapping in my subconscious.
Now, they come in swarms, a spectacle one can't explain, all I know is that I was yearning for their presence. They are guests for this celebration of light, I crafted with my pain, and love, the antidote, for all that angst.
A poem is born as a dome of effulgence these fireflies create in pitch darkness that meditates alone only on light .