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.
