In breathing out the air what do we give to the world? A realization in the free warm air of what entrapment is.
I looked at her in the low illuminated realm of my bed. The remnants of the lights were coming from the stereo playing at the corner of the room. The low volume mixed in well with the light and somewhere they made a good amalgam to give evenness to what was. She did not shimmer in the stolen light. Instead, she surrendered her skin to the homogeny around her.
Somewhere in a sea of homogenous dunes, in the midst of the direction-seeking desert I stood facing the night. All that was above me, all that was below me, and all that was in front of me was a pitch of cold. Was I a part of it or an interloper trying to make my own light?
She waited for me to pick my pieces from the homogeny to build my story. Instead of imposing her own self as one definite character in my story, she let me to wander to my heart’s direction. There she was, in front of me, ready to be taken as a straw… ready to be taken as the jade…
I picked her in my fistful of sand from the pitch cold… I held her in the last song of the cassette. She smiled and let her distinctive fragrance overwhelm me.
I wondered what she had given me, and what she had held back.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
My Diary Entries: 12th November 2007: Riding the Wings of a Promise
I am smoking a bit too much these days, and although I can quit any day, I don’t know what it is that I am drawing from the smoke puffed into my self only to be released after a brief touch with the lungs. Maybe, it also wants a piece of my heart. But isn’t it me, myself baiting my heart to the damage?
I want to quit. I know I can, but every evening sees me breaking one promise in the making of another. It also draws me to the futility of a promise: not a stain of uncertainty on making it, but losing color like the denims soaked in water for a night. I often wonder how it would be like if we were required to validate a promise. Just like the creditworthiness of a person, we’d be judged on our ability to fulfill a promise—on a scale of promise-worthiness. We do sign on documents everyday, it is infact a type of promise, but I’m not talking of those. I am talking of the ones which require no signatures: Promises made on terraces on cloudy nights, promises made in the flow of cursive ink, promises written in the bark of a pine, promises written on the sands of a beach, promises held in ones eyes and read by another’s, promises…. it’s a sea of words and we never tend to realize how it is going to impact the other person. It can take us soaring to the heights of rapture but then leave us to doom in the darkest of our moments.
Such is the power of a promise, and we are allowed to carry it and use it too without any license.
Talking of the promise-worthiness scale, what would it actually indicate?
Character of a person?
The ability of a person to predict his future?
Time’s cruelty or munificence towards one?
We dwell on a moment so much and get carried away in our emotional spurge to such an extent that the future seems an easy constant for us to define. And we make that promise. A promise-worthiness grade would actually indicate how grounded are we while saying something.
For I have suffered, and everyone reading this piece and everyone not reading this piece alike has in some way or the other suffered when a promise made was not fulfilled, a promise that had our hearts hinged on its wings, so much that when it died, we lost a part of our innocence.
Now that a promise-worthiness scale is a not on the radar of Humankind’s invention machinery, I smile at every promise made to me. When it comes to the everyday stories of my cigarette promises I tend to nurse myself well every morning for I had played with my own self the previous evening and am not carrying the corpse of someone else’s crash of hope.
But this also brings me to the point where I wait to be asked for a solitary promise rather than giving one myself—to quit smoking. I patiently wait for the day when the cigarette would be pulled out of my mouth, its butt crushed under the soles of the shoes and a word taken from me to quit it all.
This promise, I would keep, the truth of which would never known during my lifetime.
I want to quit. I know I can, but every evening sees me breaking one promise in the making of another. It also draws me to the futility of a promise: not a stain of uncertainty on making it, but losing color like the denims soaked in water for a night. I often wonder how it would be like if we were required to validate a promise. Just like the creditworthiness of a person, we’d be judged on our ability to fulfill a promise—on a scale of promise-worthiness. We do sign on documents everyday, it is infact a type of promise, but I’m not talking of those. I am talking of the ones which require no signatures: Promises made on terraces on cloudy nights, promises made in the flow of cursive ink, promises written in the bark of a pine, promises written on the sands of a beach, promises held in ones eyes and read by another’s, promises…. it’s a sea of words and we never tend to realize how it is going to impact the other person. It can take us soaring to the heights of rapture but then leave us to doom in the darkest of our moments.
Such is the power of a promise, and we are allowed to carry it and use it too without any license.
Talking of the promise-worthiness scale, what would it actually indicate?
Character of a person?
The ability of a person to predict his future?
Time’s cruelty or munificence towards one?
We dwell on a moment so much and get carried away in our emotional spurge to such an extent that the future seems an easy constant for us to define. And we make that promise. A promise-worthiness grade would actually indicate how grounded are we while saying something.
For I have suffered, and everyone reading this piece and everyone not reading this piece alike has in some way or the other suffered when a promise made was not fulfilled, a promise that had our hearts hinged on its wings, so much that when it died, we lost a part of our innocence.
Now that a promise-worthiness scale is a not on the radar of Humankind’s invention machinery, I smile at every promise made to me. When it comes to the everyday stories of my cigarette promises I tend to nurse myself well every morning for I had played with my own self the previous evening and am not carrying the corpse of someone else’s crash of hope.
But this also brings me to the point where I wait to be asked for a solitary promise rather than giving one myself—to quit smoking. I patiently wait for the day when the cigarette would be pulled out of my mouth, its butt crushed under the soles of the shoes and a word taken from me to quit it all.
This promise, I would keep, the truth of which would never known during my lifetime.
My Diary Entries: 1st November 2007 (2 AM): Forgiveness
We had walked together, and although we never held each other’s hand, we felt each other’s warmth in the space of our breaths. And today we find ourselves separated not by miles but by the worlds we live in. That space between our breaths has become too very insignificant. I once wondered what has got into it. All I found was a deep pain of loss. And so I started living in the breaths of my life. But am I not living the other equal part too… between my breaths?
She had cried, I could see and for once I felt like crying too. The ambience of the party would masquerade my tears, I knew. But then I discovered I had no tears left in me. There was no desire for the pain to come out and embrace the world. Content it was within me and I was struggling to say goodbye to this only constant thing in my life. Have I become too stonehearted to forgive myself? I wondered but not for long. We were in a party and had to attend to other things as well.
Late at night the following evening, I decided to clear my inbox of SMSes. Resting my head on a pillow, I started reading and deleting the trivial ones. It was then that I encountered her SMSes: the everyday good morning quotes she used to send, a few ones where she told me how much she was missing me, the ones which had prompted me to think of our relationship, the ones seasoned in the spices of lies, the promises that were never kept or maybe forgotten, the few complaints, and an endless sea of explanations. Arsenic poisoning, they call it in medical parlance, but I’d still name it as a slow death where the pain starts off as a pleasure and then slowly gets into you. Those SMSes transformed me from a smiling individual enjoying the Sun to the one of today, waiting for the Sun to set to be able to see the swirls of his cigarette smoke more clearly –all in the blink of an eye.
I found my pillow getting wet and before I could realize I was sobbing hard. I held back, lest someone might hear me, but then gave way to the on flow.
And while I’m crying my silent tear today, I know she has someone to wipe hers. In that cauldron of empathy she’d reside and she’d slowly take it as the flow of care and understanding.
I’d wait for her to bring me the day when we had smiled on a sunny day and prayed that it’d not end; I’d wait for her to give me that one single moment of her unadulterated life which she would not share with anyone; I’d wait for her to bring me the gifts of love bought in the company of no one except my thoughts; I’d wait for her to understand the song sung by the masses for her to realize the truth in it; I’d wait for her to lay down her fortress and still command the respect of the attackers; I’d wait for her to look into the West with a hold on the East; And I’d wait……
Till I learn how to fill the spaces between my breaths.
She had cried, I could see and for once I felt like crying too. The ambience of the party would masquerade my tears, I knew. But then I discovered I had no tears left in me. There was no desire for the pain to come out and embrace the world. Content it was within me and I was struggling to say goodbye to this only constant thing in my life. Have I become too stonehearted to forgive myself? I wondered but not for long. We were in a party and had to attend to other things as well.
Late at night the following evening, I decided to clear my inbox of SMSes. Resting my head on a pillow, I started reading and deleting the trivial ones. It was then that I encountered her SMSes: the everyday good morning quotes she used to send, a few ones where she told me how much she was missing me, the ones which had prompted me to think of our relationship, the ones seasoned in the spices of lies, the promises that were never kept or maybe forgotten, the few complaints, and an endless sea of explanations. Arsenic poisoning, they call it in medical parlance, but I’d still name it as a slow death where the pain starts off as a pleasure and then slowly gets into you. Those SMSes transformed me from a smiling individual enjoying the Sun to the one of today, waiting for the Sun to set to be able to see the swirls of his cigarette smoke more clearly –all in the blink of an eye.
I found my pillow getting wet and before I could realize I was sobbing hard. I held back, lest someone might hear me, but then gave way to the on flow.
And while I’m crying my silent tear today, I know she has someone to wipe hers. In that cauldron of empathy she’d reside and she’d slowly take it as the flow of care and understanding.
I’d wait for her to bring me the day when we had smiled on a sunny day and prayed that it’d not end; I’d wait for her to give me that one single moment of her unadulterated life which she would not share with anyone; I’d wait for her to bring me the gifts of love bought in the company of no one except my thoughts; I’d wait for her to understand the song sung by the masses for her to realize the truth in it; I’d wait for her to lay down her fortress and still command the respect of the attackers; I’d wait for her to look into the West with a hold on the East; And I’d wait……
Till I learn how to fill the spaces between my breaths.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Where Pain Sinks In
(In the company of my friend, Powai Lake)
The small ripples on the silent lake
Breathed out in the dark,
I lay in my rock-stance by its side,
Untouched by the lights of the distance
And the reins of beckoning.
What it hath given me, I surmise not.
It hid my reflection in its dark waters,
And when I cried, its breath wiped
The tears for me to look at the
Lines of my palm?
I threw a nugget and waited
For it to hit the bottom.
When no sound came, I asked,
“Can you take the world in you?”
My words sunk in and with it my
Infinity.
How many more infinities would I breach
Till I stop throwing that pebble?
I looked at my palm,
But the dust of the pebble held
Blurred the story of what will be.
I looked at the distant lights and
Held one neon between my fingertips.
Its reflection, I could see
Played with the ripples and
Did not sink in.
Often I envisage
What good is a mirror that cannot absorb?
What good is a mirror that emulates you?
The small ripples on the silent lake
Breathed out in the dark,
I lay in my rock-stance by its side,
Untouched by the lights of the distance
And the reins of beckoning.
What it hath given me, I surmise not.
It hid my reflection in its dark waters,
And when I cried, its breath wiped
The tears for me to look at the
Lines of my palm?
I threw a nugget and waited
For it to hit the bottom.
When no sound came, I asked,
“Can you take the world in you?”
My words sunk in and with it my
Infinity.
How many more infinities would I breach
Till I stop throwing that pebble?
I looked at my palm,
But the dust of the pebble held
Blurred the story of what will be.
I looked at the distant lights and
Held one neon between my fingertips.
Its reflection, I could see
Played with the ripples and
Did not sink in.
Often I envisage
What good is a mirror that cannot absorb?
What good is a mirror that emulates you?
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Parting Song
(thoughts in two minutes of emotional madness)
If the wind would not have blown,
I would not have known, that
Such a fragrance exists.
With the wind gone, i'll burn the
Hearth and let the fire make merry.
In my smoked palms you would
No longer be-- a provocation
For you to come back and
Dab me again, this time
With another fragrance.
If the wind would not have blown,
I would not have known, that
Such a fragrance exists.
With the wind gone, i'll burn the
Hearth and let the fire make merry.
In my smoked palms you would
No longer be-- a provocation
For you to come back and
Dab me again, this time
With another fragrance.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Gift
If I had to gift you something, what
Would that be?
Isn’t it an inconclusive affair, for
The gift would have to live a timeless life
In the ken of your ageing eye, drawing
From the fountain of youth not the key
Of the hereafter
But the secret of the dew-drops’ ability
To comfort our vision every morning.
It should speak to you the
Words of the last rays of the sun in
Your moments of silence,
And bring to you the tidings from the
World of hope. To be able to lead you
Through the nameless road,
Down to the factory where
Dreams are made.
It should hide within itself a chest of
Unheard songs, a note of which
Would be discovered by you
Everyday, to be
Hummed in your moments of
Oblivion.
In my travels to the new lands, never
Have I seen such a thing. Its presence was but
In pieces of insignificance.
Fragments of it lay
In the breath of a fall from a cliff, while I
Discovered some more in the clamor
Of the silent lake. I even found its element
Hanging onto the swirl of the
Fast dissipating smoke of my
Marijuana sober thoughts.
When the Pimpernel would embrace
The dull weather with its flowers,
I’d tell you of my searches in the boondocks,
For you to lay your hands on the pieces
I could not hold in my palm.
Until then, I’d home these
In my eyes,
With the hope to wrap it in
The colors of reflection
For you.
Would that be?
Isn’t it an inconclusive affair, for
The gift would have to live a timeless life
In the ken of your ageing eye, drawing
From the fountain of youth not the key
Of the hereafter
But the secret of the dew-drops’ ability
To comfort our vision every morning.
It should speak to you the
Words of the last rays of the sun in
Your moments of silence,
And bring to you the tidings from the
World of hope. To be able to lead you
Through the nameless road,
Down to the factory where
Dreams are made.
It should hide within itself a chest of
Unheard songs, a note of which
Would be discovered by you
Everyday, to be
Hummed in your moments of
Oblivion.
In my travels to the new lands, never
Have I seen such a thing. Its presence was but
In pieces of insignificance.
Fragments of it lay
In the breath of a fall from a cliff, while I
Discovered some more in the clamor
Of the silent lake. I even found its element
Hanging onto the swirl of the
Fast dissipating smoke of my
Marijuana sober thoughts.
When the Pimpernel would embrace
The dull weather with its flowers,
I’d tell you of my searches in the boondocks,
For you to lay your hands on the pieces
I could not hold in my palm.
Until then, I’d home these
In my eyes,
With the hope to wrap it in
The colors of reflection
For you.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Confessing To My Diary
While human exploration has reached to a point where we are considering settlement on the Moon and space tourism as an industry, we are yet to throw light and peep into our own self. Hardly do we realize what we want out of life. To be rich, to be happy, to be famous, to be content—these are all oversimplifications. Many a times we realize of one desire of ours only when we reach a point in our life when we cannot accomplish it, we mull over it thinking of the time when we were so close to fulfilling it and cursing ourselves for not taking that step. And many a times this realization comes when we are doing something petty—washing the dishes, looking at photographs, writing a poem, mowing the lawn, using the toaster…
For my friend’s birthday, I had decided to make a small movie containing some photographs of hers. The problem was to choose a few photographs from the sea of my digital camera’s output. I began looking at each of them, one after the other, sometimes going back to the previous ones. It was not the smiles and the poses that caught me. I saw a pattern in the photographs, a chronology of growth and a bookmark to the day and incidents when the photograph was taken. It was infact a time machine, dropping me into the past without a ticket.
I dwelled on it for time I knew not, surmising the thread to today with all its tethers. We have all changed, so much that I felt like painting the old pictures in the Polaroid black and white colors. Isn’t it amazing, the ability of a picture developed in the dark room to visibly grow old like the mortals in the picture? Some proportional relationship no Newton could ever prove.
It was in this web of knots that I finally surrendered my fort on that day. In the photo story I found my own story. Of the love I refused to surrender to, of the songs I refused to sing, of the dreams my sub-consciousness did not permit to dream… And while I have loved her all this time, I’ve realized it only today.
I felt a strange relief; of the kind you feel when you find an answer to the questions bothering you for long. With it also came flooding the answers to all my innate actions. I looked at the photographs from my new set of eyes, wrought in the colors of love. She was indeed beautiful, an undiscovered mire challenging you to explore its depths of quicksand. So slowly I had sunk into it that I did not even offer any resistance and the transition seemed as normal as the flow of water from the river into the sea.
When I had finished the photographs, it was well past the time of the night when you feel very sleepy. Maybe around 3 AM it was. But I did not bother to check. And then I constructed the photo-story—with the words I wanted to speak and the moments where I wanted to live. The architect in me wanted this construction to go on forever, encompassing everything I had admired in life, into the nothingness of being. Every brick that I picked up from my photograph-store fit in perfectly in concord with my dream. Eventually, I ran out of the bricks, but even than the house that I had built was complete in all sense.
Later, I mulled over where I stood. I was amazed at the way I was looking at things now, with the softness of the dewdrops comforting my view.
As I write this piece, I am standing in a fork on the road where I do not know whether to confess my love, or to just let it linger on in me.
I’ve read somewhere:
Many dreams may remain without a trailing line of pursuit. They plunge into the darkness while we never lose the ones with the trailers.
For my friend’s birthday, I had decided to make a small movie containing some photographs of hers. The problem was to choose a few photographs from the sea of my digital camera’s output. I began looking at each of them, one after the other, sometimes going back to the previous ones. It was not the smiles and the poses that caught me. I saw a pattern in the photographs, a chronology of growth and a bookmark to the day and incidents when the photograph was taken. It was infact a time machine, dropping me into the past without a ticket.
I dwelled on it for time I knew not, surmising the thread to today with all its tethers. We have all changed, so much that I felt like painting the old pictures in the Polaroid black and white colors. Isn’t it amazing, the ability of a picture developed in the dark room to visibly grow old like the mortals in the picture? Some proportional relationship no Newton could ever prove.
It was in this web of knots that I finally surrendered my fort on that day. In the photo story I found my own story. Of the love I refused to surrender to, of the songs I refused to sing, of the dreams my sub-consciousness did not permit to dream… And while I have loved her all this time, I’ve realized it only today.
I felt a strange relief; of the kind you feel when you find an answer to the questions bothering you for long. With it also came flooding the answers to all my innate actions. I looked at the photographs from my new set of eyes, wrought in the colors of love. She was indeed beautiful, an undiscovered mire challenging you to explore its depths of quicksand. So slowly I had sunk into it that I did not even offer any resistance and the transition seemed as normal as the flow of water from the river into the sea.
When I had finished the photographs, it was well past the time of the night when you feel very sleepy. Maybe around 3 AM it was. But I did not bother to check. And then I constructed the photo-story—with the words I wanted to speak and the moments where I wanted to live. The architect in me wanted this construction to go on forever, encompassing everything I had admired in life, into the nothingness of being. Every brick that I picked up from my photograph-store fit in perfectly in concord with my dream. Eventually, I ran out of the bricks, but even than the house that I had built was complete in all sense.
Later, I mulled over where I stood. I was amazed at the way I was looking at things now, with the softness of the dewdrops comforting my view.
As I write this piece, I am standing in a fork on the road where I do not know whether to confess my love, or to just let it linger on in me.
I’ve read somewhere:
Many dreams may remain without a trailing line of pursuit. They plunge into the darkness while we never lose the ones with the trailers.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Wait
Someone has said, if you are on the road, you should walk; if you are at a crossroad, you should decide. This age defying road must have started as the dead brown grasses of the fields, stomped heavily by the ones keen to go some place but not finding a road, a shorter way. Those early stompers had played the other way: deciding on the road.
And they have left us the road, which is hardly a semblance of the one they had walked.
Once, at a crossroad, I could not decide where to head. I waited there looking at the people—coming and going, busy with things that hardly mattered, ignoring the words floating in the air. They walked on, pausing at times maybe to decide, to where they found attention. And just when I had figured out the crowd’s pattern of movement, I was yet again brought to another situation—whether to move in the glittering road of attention or the road I desire, narrow and small. I decided to wait.
I am still waiting, and I do not know why or for whom?
And they have left us the road, which is hardly a semblance of the one they had walked.
Once, at a crossroad, I could not decide where to head. I waited there looking at the people—coming and going, busy with things that hardly mattered, ignoring the words floating in the air. They walked on, pausing at times maybe to decide, to where they found attention. And just when I had figured out the crowd’s pattern of movement, I was yet again brought to another situation—whether to move in the glittering road of attention or the road I desire, narrow and small. I decided to wait.
I am still waiting, and I do not know why or for whom?
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
She
In her enigma rests the pleasant
Teasing, like the wind playing
With her let-loose hair.
Always an attention but never
A bother.
Her hands do not seek, only an
Allusion in her kohl eyes
Entices you, like a driftwood
In the flooding stretch of the
Yellow river.
Oar not in this stretch, and the current
Would teach to you the language
Of her allusion.
A never treaded expanse you’ll be in
Where her hands would both
Seek and guide.
Her Language
Don’t hunt the lion but its pride,
Understand not that is
In the light.
Teasing, like the wind playing
With her let-loose hair.
Always an attention but never
A bother.
Her hands do not seek, only an
Allusion in her kohl eyes
Entices you, like a driftwood
In the flooding stretch of the
Yellow river.
Oar not in this stretch, and the current
Would teach to you the language
Of her allusion.
A never treaded expanse you’ll be in
Where her hands would both
Seek and guide.
Her Language
Don’t hunt the lion but its pride,
Understand not that is
In the light.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Monsoon- The First Rains of the Season
After months of the Summer Sun's face, we welcome the rains. To the park we run, in the roads we play with a dance song in our hearts while our eyes look into the distance and at the skies. The drops hitting our face come from the heaven and in this moment of closeness we long to live.
After months of rain and clouds, the Sun smiles at the sunflowers. Eternal seems the light that screens through the last of the defeated clouds, and brings before us the blue sky. Dont we long for that as well?
The rains after the sun, the sun after the rains... Like the wild tango of sorrows and the happiness... And yet, the impermanence of happiness is our greatest concern.
After months of rain and clouds, the Sun smiles at the sunflowers. Eternal seems the light that screens through the last of the defeated clouds, and brings before us the blue sky. Dont we long for that as well?
The rains after the sun, the sun after the rains... Like the wild tango of sorrows and the happiness... And yet, the impermanence of happiness is our greatest concern.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Silent Company
Where have you been my friend?
In the stories of the yore I search for you, like
The memories of a lost fragrance
You cling to me, deserting my soul when I try to recall
And smearing it when I least look for you.
Why do you visit me when I am asleep
And disappear into memory when I seek you?
You come to me like the dust in the wind,
Touching me and running away
While I try to make my way in your storm.
In the stories of the yore I search for you, like
The memories of a lost fragrance
You cling to me, deserting my soul when I try to recall
And smearing it when I least look for you.
Why do you visit me when I am asleep
And disappear into memory when I seek you?
You come to me like the dust in the wind,
Touching me and running away
While I try to make my way in your storm.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Incomplete--- The Potter's Clay Shaping My Love
I embraced her in my dreams, and she felt like the soft cotton, always too afraid of being caught in the gush of the angry wind. She clung to me for support and as I held her I realized of the warmth she was spreading within me. But this warmth held her from spanning her wings to the call of the wind again..
She died in this embrace and every time I braced myself, I found her in the undiscovered space between me and my brace.
I saw a cotton seed burst open, releasing forth the desire of flight. I tried to catch its glee, its slow descent and then its resurrection in the sudden surge of upward current--- sometimes in a song, sometimes in a lazy siesta, and sometimes in the wild dance of Shiva. I have a desire in my being too--- of her wings, of her dreams left without a chase. Those dreams are still waiting, to play the incomplete game of hide and seek. But as I extend my hand to chase it, I realize that it’s not my game to play--- it’s hers. I wait there with my open arms, not knowing whether I’m trying to play the game that is not mine, or whether I’m trying to disown her, to see her play, while the dreams, her dreams wait for her to return.
*** ***
The Palm Tree’s Diary
The wind that blows from the seas finds a resistance in the palm leaves. I complained of her harshness and her refusal to acknowledge my reception.
Late at night, in the stillness of the moonlight, I found her caressing my hair with her breezy wings. A few words I mumbled in my sleepy trance while she made me make friendship with dreams.
*** ***
The song that escaped my lips but never traveled the distance had a hope. I knocked on her door, always knowing that I’ll have to walk back the distance.
*** ***
I realize of the love, but does it always have to be sweet?
She died in this embrace and every time I braced myself, I found her in the undiscovered space between me and my brace.
I saw a cotton seed burst open, releasing forth the desire of flight. I tried to catch its glee, its slow descent and then its resurrection in the sudden surge of upward current--- sometimes in a song, sometimes in a lazy siesta, and sometimes in the wild dance of Shiva. I have a desire in my being too--- of her wings, of her dreams left without a chase. Those dreams are still waiting, to play the incomplete game of hide and seek. But as I extend my hand to chase it, I realize that it’s not my game to play--- it’s hers. I wait there with my open arms, not knowing whether I’m trying to play the game that is not mine, or whether I’m trying to disown her, to see her play, while the dreams, her dreams wait for her to return.
*** ***
The Palm Tree’s Diary
The wind that blows from the seas finds a resistance in the palm leaves. I complained of her harshness and her refusal to acknowledge my reception.
Late at night, in the stillness of the moonlight, I found her caressing my hair with her breezy wings. A few words I mumbled in my sleepy trance while she made me make friendship with dreams.
*** ***
The song that escaped my lips but never traveled the distance had a hope. I knocked on her door, always knowing that I’ll have to walk back the distance.
*** ***
I realize of the love, but does it always have to be sweet?
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