Saudade

Do not ask me why I write.

I do not write, do I?

Of all those moments

which need to be bundled,

with sea-breeze and sandalwood

Smells of temple rituals?

Or of blessings from departed

souls at farewells, weddings,

feeding the first rice grain

to a six-month-old curious mouth?

Neither do I write, of

Soft stars falling from open

skies onto my bed at night

Showering me with white

jasmine blooms; weaving

countless tales of valor,

of sparrows too and of

those infinitesimal permutations

of the sixty four squares

of this game of life.

If I write, I write of regret, of loss,

a sense of unfulfilled belonging;

Kisses unreturned, tears unspent;

And of dreams dissolved, reshaped

Coalesced with the lapsed;

Familiar faces, new people, always people.

I write of you and of me,

who were in one sacred nook

of time and space, together

Bundled with everything that is alive.