The Answer

A dry land seeking liberty

to get drenched wonders

about the quiet after this storm.

The roads are familiar to it. 

The smell of the air isn’t.

The trees no longer liaise. 

Their commitments are done.

Does the new rephrasing require us?

An empty bowl falls on the floor— 

the sound seems familiar.

It was there in the quiet before the storm.

Tangled

Stories of loneliness stay 

warm inside my blanket, 

get replaced without a sound.

Arms raised, a leafless tree 

prays for its death.

I wish I understood those birds, their songs

struggling to break free from the branches.

Curtained

Being invisible doesn’t serve my purpose 

for I can still see and hear.

Neither can I be insensitive

to the notes being played around me—

Any clash of tunes strikes me harder 

for I am the only one left in this house 

to be perturbed by the false notes.

I stay indifferent to the known truths of solitude.

When someone speaks about them

I draw the drapes of my room

and sail into the evening to give voice to the ache behind the walls.