The cottage is old and the garden trees have overgrown, The long missed smells of mother’s food… Oh, what joy to eventually come home!
Shrill morning breaks to the call of crows As the sun rises from behind prison walls. A reminder yet again, Light alights in sleeping hours, Daylight brings hell, the unvoiced tortured wails Which cry out for the Light. But it plays tantalizing games at night And leaves the mornings in the hand of the jailor. No friend, no foe, no merchant nor sailor Will ever come to see… We’re alone in our six square feet cells Us, and the haunting drum roll of the surrounding sea.
Written in 2011, upon visiting the Cellular Jail in the Andaman Islands.
Faded memories lose their colour and conversation Alive but wearing thin with each recollection and overlapped by the heartache meetings kisses and partings tomorrow holds so close Destined to be replaced and painfully short lived So fades another day and another and another