Saturday, 16 September 2017

Origins

I have no origins, no beginnings and endings 
Atleast, I remember none, except maybe 

Anxious Diwali evenings spent waiting for 
My glorious, lonesome Ammas' scooter to 
Be parked where it belonged.

Flooded streets on monsoon afternoons
Holding hands with a little one who thought
I knew our way back home 

A cyclone that could have eliminated 
A busfull of sixteen year old dreams of a world
which they'd live to never find

Much awaited flight to cold chapters 
of loneliness from an unworldly passion
That never stopped yearning 

Hands held after tears dried up 
Into easy compromises, smooth evenings
Long afternoons of sad songs on loop 

Maybe, the beginning was as in movies
from Russia, something as pointless 
as fingers pointing together to a red star








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