Necklace

You made me a necklace,
weaving every word,
like pearls in a string

It glinted like diamonds
and ornamented my being

And then came the silence,
a silence so eternal
that it broke the string

I may have lost the pearls,
but I still hold the string

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Tunnels

What invokes an irresistible
stupefaction in you, is
nothing but small cavities
in the seemingly closed
tunnels flowing between
your mind and heart

The rocks you’ve been
hurling into yourself
will soon collapse these
dilapidated tunnels, flooding
your soul with everything
that acknowledges existence

How to build sandcastles

The sand should be slightly moist,
like the remnants of the innocence
in your heart

and every touch of your hand
maneuvering between grip and tenderness,
just as those words that become
whispers in the acts of love

Do not care for the weather,
care for what you can do;
weather only loves to play

Pray for mind to imbibe endurance,
the task loses track of time
and toil; as for I can tell you
not all sandcastles are built on the beach

Some gets built in the dreams,
while others on the claimed or
unclaimed bodies of the people

I am accused of tending to the past
as if I made it,
as if I sculpted it
with my own hands. I did not.
this past was waiting for me
when I came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and I with my mother’s itch
took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.

 

~I am accused of tending to the past; Lucille Clifton

Rains

Outside,
it rained all night.

Inside,
there remained a desert
of breaths and voices
and their sentiments, thereof.

The distance to the window
becomes irreconcilable;
some rains can’t get you
drenched.

Cry

Neither hide nor escape your tears.

Cry.

Cry with all your heart, and every other
place in your body that shelters pain.

Cry in all dimensions,
as if your loss takes up a body so
frail only to accompany your mourning.

Cry so mindlessly
as if all the killings in every other
bloodbath, belonged to your own blood.

Cry so profusely
as if you are witnessing your own funeral,
your body reducing into ashes and spirit
infusing into air.

And finally cry a little more,
until there is no more crying-
only some dried tears, puffy eyes,
and palpable heartbeats.

There. Stop. And
step into Now.

Look around.
There is nothing else,
but only Now. There.
Live. Embrace.

My body

To them, my body was
only a terracotta vessel,
daubed in attractive colours
of seasons and flowers

They came by as weary travellers
drinking away their thirst
And on quenching it all,
smashed clay pieces into the soil,
pursuing the remaining journey

My body however was like
fireflies, illuminating the woods
that belonged to the dark,
breathing in and out life