No one will wait anymore—
Here, this silence hums its lonely hymn.
If anyone on this earth remembers the path you once took,
If anyone still hears the echo of the door you closed,
If anyone had stood beside you in that relentless rain—
That rain from a season long forgotten—
Will they return to find you here once more?

On the verandah, where evening moths swarm the fading light,
Or inside, as they reach for a half-forgotten tune—
When the fragile thread of melody suddenly snaps—
A withered petal will tremble, then fall,
Unraveling from their grasp like memory itself.

Oh west wind, wrongfully called wild, Oh dear and tender Zephyrus, How could your name ever be befiled, if they knew your gentle caress?

A face so soft and rounded strong, warm hands that comb through locks of hair. Yet I despair when I see the throng, your dying visage, my love, so fair.

Zephyrus, why do you fade away? Tell me, let me share your fate. Why, my love, do you look so sore? Is it us? Did we rob you of your state?

Exhausts exhaust, did we take your breath? Did we cost you your very life? Your quivering lips, pale as death, Zephyrus, are you consumed by strife?

My love, stay with me, I beg and plead, Don't perish, Zephyrus, don't be gone. Together, we'll change this vile deed, I'll keep you uplifted, love withdrawn.

Zephyrus, please, where have you gone? Zephyrus mine, don't be deceased. Know that I love you, even though it's wrong, this's my demise. Your song has ceased

Oh west wind, wrongfully called wild,
Oh dear and tender Zephyrus,
How could ever be your name befiled,

If they knew your soft caress?
A face so soft and rounded strong,
And warm hands that softly comb through hairs.

Yet do I despair now when I see
The face that I adore.
I see it dying, Zephyrus, why?

Tell me, let me be part of your
Sorrow and I will take your fate.
Why, my love, do you look so sore?

Is it us? Exhausts exhaust,
Did we **** you in cold blood?
Were you the one our lives have cost?

Your lips they shiver white,
Are you cold, Zephyrus, are you
Still alright? It’s a fever! Am I right?

My love, stay, I beg and plead,
Don’t die there, Zephyrus,
We'll get through this, I'll keep you upheaved.

Zephyrus, please, where are you, are you gone?
Zephyrus mine, don’t be dead.
I want you to know that, I love you, Zephyrus, even if it’s wrong.
I too have died, Zephyrus, knowing that I stopped your song.

Standing on top of each morning briefly
stopping by each evening shortly
unmindful, my eyes are chasing,
my eyelids are sweeping with light the sky
splattered with colours pilled out
after hitting horizon's last shore.

I am thinking
what is this crimson,
colour of lovers' hearts
torn from each other and
taking on to opposite paths,
or the reddish glow of minds
come together after
dark moments of separation?

Half of my life is soaked in colour
watching these red glows
spilled over the side-door that admits the day
and the bamboo portals
that shut out the day,
but could not understand
whether this earth and sky
part in the evening
and meet in the morning
or part in the morning
and meet in the evening!

-०-

Somewhere tucked on a bookshelf is a book.
Dogeared, yellow pages with a hand written note.

In a box, lie trinkets — gifts, a pendant of Annie, a book mark.
Hand made cards, smudged with time.

An old doll almost intact,
Broken spectacles, pictures, a watch and postcards.

Some may call it clutter, junk —
And it’ll all go when I go.

But to me, they are the reason behind my smile, an odd tear.

More precious than collectibles or art —
They are pieces of my life,
My world and heart.

A tinpot tyrant built a tower tall,
clad in gold and granite and all.

This motte and bailey mocked the skies,
mocked the peasants who’d helped him rise.

Reflected in wide moat’s black waters
he saw a king or khan — not the paupers —

and ruled his lands to rack and ruin
until he faced his own perdition.

The tyrant’s chiseled name fades away
dissolving with each rainy day.

All that’s left of this despot’s schemes:
the wreck of his peeling gold leaf dreams,

this tower the barest token of his trying will
upon that lonely bald abandoned hill.

Now none remember the tyrant‘s name
whose broken tower was built for fame.