pain
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Never an Admirer of a Pot
Never an admirer of a pot,Pots on the street or pot on the gallery,Never bothered by its presence either.Pots are of types…The outcome of the clay and the potter.Either sits as a show-off,Speaks with a deformed voice,Or ends up storage of the needs of human kind. I came across one such pot,Never an admirer of this pot.Looked neat… Looked clean…Looked spotless… Looked as if it could hold on to the waterI seldom poured in any before.Everything on the outsideWell and fine. She thought, he thought, and I thoughtThe pot is bought.It lays on that table idle.Should I use it to…
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Reclaiming My Garden
I removed the rose beds,Cleared away the weeds,I never wanted them to begin with.There was no one to help,It was just me,With bare hands.I dipped my fingers into the hardened soil,Plucking them one by one.The thorns cut my skin,Blood droplets painting the soil red.I put them in a box,Asked the mailman to send it to those women out there…Women who deserve those roses,Women who want those rose beds.I burnt the weeds to ashes.“Alone? Didn’t it take too much time?”They asked me…Yes, alone.While the sun rose and set…Fifteen moons passed by…I got drenched in the drizzles,Drizzles that swept from the darkest…
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The Passing Breeze and Silent Mountain
There was a time when winter settled in,A mountain stood, untouched by warmth or spring,Content beneath the sky’s indifferent gaze,No need for change, no promise of new days. But then a breeze, soft as a distant hum,Wandered through the valleys, gentle, numb,A fleeting warmth, felt like a whisper through the frost,Not much, but enough to feel and show what had been lost so far. The mountain let the cold begin to melt,Not knowing yet the trick the breeze had dealt…For winds, they never stay, they only pass,Like sunlight flickering on broken glass. Pebbles in a stream, touched once, then left…
A Solivagant's Shoes 