for the unknown!!
the flakes of ice take their
last breaths on roadsides,
melting under the dubious sun of
winter dawn, with last drops of water
oozing from them. Soon to evaporate.
the melodrama of life begins
not at the point where
we begin our lives,
but at the point where
we make that (well-thought) pause
yellow and pink orchids
and carnations of red
stand on the hillsides. Smiling as
the semblance of beauty.
The tale of callousness
of last night’s zephyr
echoes in them. Ever unheard.
Well, forever unheard.
No: tomorrow
we won’t remain
what yesterday we were
or what we’re today.
To stop and sit by the
riverside
to see the rippling
or to climb up the cliff
to behold the sight of
condensed shrunk city,
can’t help us bring together the
lost pieces of the jigsaw: the music.
there comes the night.
the coldness- mauve and parched
sneak through the silhouette of
naked leafless trees,
as they glow under moonlight.
while the purple blossoms shrivel,
my city sleeps warm
under the miasma of smoke
curling up from the
red hot coal burning in
charcoal-black hearths.
yet to begin a life,
I know
there stays that tiny inkling
somewhere around. Unseen.
the cause itself is the effect of this
wanderlust of heart.
let me come in. let me sit.
not for long, but short a while.
let me warm my hands by this
blazing fire of the furnace.
Before I leave in haste (which I’d being a traveler)
and incidentally
burn my palm, I know I shall know
You were there somewhere
amongst those trees and orchids.
“Were You?”
Ah, I hear you counter ask what I further ask me,
“Did I wait for the last flake of the ice to melt?”
“well, ummm, as always, I didn’t.”
But thanks, You drew me back.
Quite well, in time. this time again. (touchwood)
last breaths on roadsides,
melting under the dubious sun of
winter dawn, with last drops of water
oozing from them. Soon to evaporate.
the melodrama of life begins
not at the point where
we begin our lives,
but at the point where
we make that (well-thought) pause
yellow and pink orchids
and carnations of red
stand on the hillsides. Smiling as
the semblance of beauty.
The tale of callousness
of last night’s zephyr
echoes in them. Ever unheard.
Well, forever unheard.
No: tomorrow
we won’t remain
what yesterday we were
or what we’re today.
To stop and sit by the
riverside
to see the rippling
or to climb up the cliff
to behold the sight of
condensed shrunk city,
can’t help us bring together the
lost pieces of the jigsaw: the music.
there comes the night.
the coldness- mauve and parched
sneak through the silhouette of
naked leafless trees,
as they glow under moonlight.
while the purple blossoms shrivel,
my city sleeps warm
under the miasma of smoke
curling up from the
red hot coal burning in
charcoal-black hearths.
yet to begin a life,
I know
there stays that tiny inkling
somewhere around. Unseen.
the cause itself is the effect of this
wanderlust of heart.
let me come in. let me sit.
not for long, but short a while.
let me warm my hands by this
blazing fire of the furnace.
Before I leave in haste (which I’d being a traveler)
and incidentally
burn my palm, I know I shall know
You were there somewhere
amongst those trees and orchids.
“Were You?”
Ah, I hear you counter ask what I further ask me,
“Did I wait for the last flake of the ice to melt?”
“well, ummm, as always, I didn’t.”
But thanks, You drew me back.
Quite well, in time. this time again. (touchwood)
Comments