An old melody long unvisited
Evokes dream-like memories
And gentle, life-like fantasies
Bringing strangers together.
Two unmakeoutable souls make love
In the blanket of freezing darkness
The old melody and their low murmur
Waking the birds perched in slumber.
The birds fly to their love nests
Chirping duets with the two below
Rubbing onto each their warmth
Waking the trees frozen for years.
The trees sway in creaky unison
Freed from the clutch of cold air
And soon the forest is moving
As gods rain paranoid glances.
The sun rises to catch glimpse
Of life in this unlikely corner
That it had long stopped visiting
All by the spell of that old melody.
The old melody:
You glide our boat up the mystic river.
The stream that sang all day eerily quiet.
Trees that glittered in the sun, dark shapes.
Stroke by stroke, our boat ascends skyward.
You are my only warmth in the cold
And deep darkness cloaking our boat,
As I sit in the way of scattered starlight
From touching with its frozen fingers.
The wind couldn’t be more conducive of thought
The breeze that gives gentle digressions to our journey
A wayward traveller in want of company
But the boat can only carry you – and you carry me.
The darkness grows, stroke by stroke,
Encompassing all of its touring boats.
Nothing seems to evade its call –
Not even the glow of your eyes.
If anyone dare call this the end
So be it, I say.
If this indeed is one
I’ll wake up to a new tomorrow.
Wet street under a sky scrapped rainbow.
Cowshed under December rainclouds.
A million miles away.
Celestial fires are the night’s stars
Like emotions unwritten on paper,
The spaces diminishing both.
Cold hearts inside warm jackets.
Stray dogs starve in howling night.
The poor go up only in balance.
I’ve been in these two worlds
The other has always been the greener.
White is mournful,
Being the color of answer sheets.
White is holy,
So I choose not to ink on it.
The ceiling fans play tunes,
The guy to the right hears it not.
The invigilator smiles to herself,
The girl on the left knows not.
In pin drop silence,
Pens run aloud on paper.
In a clutter free hall,
My mind is the dustbin.
‘The ingredients of dinner…’
‘The punchline of the hero…’
The additional sheets exist
Only to disturb my thoughts.
Quantization: Is devastation…
Fertilization: Is on declination…
Between trees and binary trees
I gladly choose the former.
I’ve false honor to protect,
Filling sheets with regret.
Before the clock hits ten*,
I know the world has won.
Returning the additional sheets
And the unused thread,
I step out with dread,
Alone and defeated.
*That wasn’t just for the rhyme scheme, my Unit Tests start at 8 and end near 10.