Amidst the farms lay a house,
Nestled in the middle of the vast expanse of the green fields:
Surrounded by trees, in rows of two and three,
Their leaves were adorned with flowers, that bloomed in the warmth of spring.
Within the confines of the cocoons,
the butterflies slowly unfurled their wings.
Meanwhile,
the mulberry trees were growing taller,
Wrapping around them,
the ivies were growing, reaching for the walls.
The mulberry fruits that were in deep purple hues, hang like jewels on their leaves.

I was born in that house,
yet raised afar from it
Where the city lights offered
the only brightness, after sunset.
Through spring, summer and winter, the landscape retained its unchanging colours.
The sky was often dull,
concealing its own shadows and the light of the stars,
When darkness rose from the day, the moon, however, seemed indifferent
pursuing its own course.

Watching from a distance, a housewife, unattractive by societal standards,
Carefully tended to the foliage of her garden.
Wrapping around the house,
the moonlight was shining on.

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As a child, I was never happy with my reflection in the mirror, It was a kind of a dull reflection staring back at me from the mirror. There was always a dissonance, a sense of something amiss.
One day, while rummaging through my grandfather’s drawer,I stumbled upon a small mirror tucked away in the corner of the drawer, a broken mirror with a small piece of wood attached to its base, a relic of my grandmother’s past. When I questioned him, why he kept that inspite of its fractured glass, as a token of a shared past, he spoke of grandmother’s unwavering belief that she appeared more beautiful when viewed through the shattered glass. It came with her bridal bed accessories and she was sentimental about it.
“Though it may be broken,” he whispered softly, “ it’s memories are too precious to part with”
Curious to see I took the mirror from his trembling hands and peered into it. For the first time, I saw a different me, my eyes beheld a beauty that I had never known. I was overwhelmed with joy as if the mirror had whispered the secrets of self love and acceptance into my soul.

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freedom to choose the sky, outside of the cellar of the weekdays.

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All that remains idle in my heart: the good and the bad, and solemn promises of youth,
The fleeting memories of the love that I have left behind in life,
The failed peace reverts back, as do the treaties I have made with the days,
For better or for worse those evinced by the time.

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All that remains idle in my heart: the good and the bad, the solemn promises of youth,
The fleeting memories, and the love that I never had,
The failed peace reverts back to me as do the treaties I have made with my past.

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Why don’t you ask the sun to hide?
Why can’t the breeze be gentle and the clouds throwing tantrums in the sky, and with the fields drying up, why can’t the rain be more quick to arrive?
No promise, no hope, no rainbows in the storm, no memories of the spring or autumn’s to come to life.
The mundane moments leave not to depart but be again with the summer’s rage, yet the poppies bloom deeper to bring calm in the mind.

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Moon be there, silent and graceful,
Upon the night that softly rolls,
Forgiving those who have hastened away fast
Patience, like mist upon the firmament of their spirit.

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Upon the canvas of green, the butterflies take wings
The moon’s soft glow a bestow upon them,
Transforming each into a star to share their pearls
That in the sea of darkness, a sunbeam’s ray.

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Beneath the azure sky, a flow divine and simple,
Upon it the twilight’s candour shines,
Entwined with it the tranquil light,
Finds a claim to the eternity’s end.

The dance of the shadows and the whispers surge,
As night calls upon the day, to convene the world of darkness.

Fair was the flow, in mirth of twilight’s hours
Crowded was the way, that led to the temple’s gate,
Amidst the chant of hymns, a tremulous step.

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In the garden of my heart, seasons of memories pass
In soft whispers the rustling of the leaves and
a gentle breeze that makes the flowers grow

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