I don’t write poems anymore.
Words are harsher,
Life’s not exactly non-rhythmic
It’s not cold or dead
But my words seem to have died out
The belief in the mankind isn’t yet dead
The longing for the greenlands still getting stronger
I am scared of the days when I become a proper Indian wedded wife
Wed into one of those flats in this hot city
My walks, my freedom, my sea and the little bits of greenery
All cut out and put in the confines of the apartment walls
I know I don’t have to worry so much,
India’s never devoid of life,
However thick and sweaty it gets,
So I needn’t worry.
Even if there aren’t grasses anymore,
There will be humans, lots of them
To be trampled upon and who would
Trample you too,
All in a hurry,
To catch something
Love was when it was for no reason,
The season of yellow flowers.
When the reason of love was just “love”
No expectations, no hopes of returns.
Just to fly and flutter in the cold breeze of love.
To flutter among the yellow flowers which
smelt and felt of love.
That was a time,
not long before…
Now, like the pages of this book,
I have lost the interest to go over them.
The interest to relish and relive.
I have passed on.
Into what, I don’t know.
May be the passage is into a rhythmic monotony.
A monotony which even makes you forget
to feel and love.
Or maybe it’s somewhere there.
May be sometime it may fly back like a white little feather,
And I’ll smile again with stars in my eyes and flowers in my heart.
Or may be it just flew away,
to never return…