Mom said she held the moon in her arms,
Quiet, majestic, the master of the twilight.
But her brother, the brightest of their time,
Prophesied that I was the sun,
Shining a light of my own upon all I touched.
He said so himself. And,
Over a decade later,
His light has flickered out.
The only traces of him left
Lie in the dusty corners of untouched memories
At which we toss glances in spare moments.
He isn't forgotten; he lingers in the words
Mom chooses and the choices I try to make,
And the dream I struggle to live.
Because, the truth is,
I'm searching for the light he saw in me.
Perhaps that has gone out like him. Perhaps,
His words were just memories, too.
Perhaps the light he'd seen had
Never really existed, actually.
It's easier for me to believe that than to
Believe the words of a man I never met.
But I know,
He hadn't meant for those words to follow him to his grave.
Dear mamaji, I'm trying very hard.
I want to fulfill the destiny you believed
I held in my hands.
Your words are trailing behind me in a faint echo.
But,
Sometimes I can hear them.
And I'm filled with a bit more light than before.
This is incredibly personal.
I dream about being the sun he saw me to be,
the sun I dream about myself becoming.
