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?
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4 comments:
incomplete stories are always better
dreams have died long ago......waiting for life to unfold some more...
"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." - Love these lines.
- The skin of my soul misses the touch of your hands... If its not madness then its not love.
I can feel the madness within which I see is still alien to you.
It's been a long long time since I read poetry as beutiful, as subtle as this. Wish I was a king who had lots of money,would pay for your sustenance and order you to do nothing but to dream and write and compose and paint and go about caressing people's souls with magic fingers
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