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A Traveler's Saga

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote Oh! What are these days I have found myself in! The bagpacks I carry n...

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Ashes from Half a Moon

Blind eyes of the night,
Half a moon to gaze at,
Half a moon to cry for.

She steps on broken hearts,
Pieces of fierce glass
That used to be mirrors.

She walks a little too close
To the burning walls of hell.
The gates will burn too;
The fire can no longer contain
The wave of iced hearts.

She picks the broken pieces
Till her fingers bleed,
Till those walls turn to ashes.
She steps on the ashes,
Till they embrace the ground
Till one can no longer tell
Ashes from the soil.

A slow death, she says,
Is the cure to all pain.
And her last world is 
Now ash, soil and blood.

She flies to a new world,
Of iced hearts and blind eyes.
Half a moon to gaze at,
Half a moon gazing back.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

The Unread Letters

I hope you still write her letters,
I hope tears still fall from her eyes,
Reading those letters she never found.
And when you look at the letters you never sent,
I hope it's her eyes that see the love wrapped,
For they no longer need to know the words.
But even when words fail to work magic,
I hope you still believe in your letters...
I hope you still write her letters
But I hope you send the letters you wrote..

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

A Night's Conversation

I turn out the lights
And he turns on the radio,
And it's almost like a routine
The way he approaches the bed
And I approach him.

We smile at each other
With other people
On our minds.

We start with a gentle peck
And then probably a kiss
Of feelings close to disgust.

He kisses my scars
Scars that remind me of wounds-
Wounds that he wasn't a part of.

It isn't love
And we both are in pain,
And we make love,
A good night's sleep is preordained.

I turn out the lights
Inside my head as well.
"Oh, stop thinking."

He turns on the radio
And a million thoughts
Approach his mind.

Tomorrow,
We shall not remember each other
for I have someone else to go to
And he has someone else in his mind.
But we'll smile at each other-
Smile close to disgust.

And we'll call it love
When naked bodies meet
Knowing not,
That love it is not.
For our naked souls await
To be revealed
And a good conversation
Was our sole need.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

After Years

So many years have gone by
And age has made both of us
A lot older than we used to be,
A little wiser than we used to be.
And when the yesteryears
Enter stealthily through the doors
Of a veiled moon and a dark cirrus,
We look back at what we used to be
And what we have become today.

So many years have gone by
And I don't see a single sign of you
And you see me not in who I am today.
I have changed as I should have -
I have built a small hut in a new village now.
You still are in the city we used to live in.
And maybe we'd have been so much happier now,

But I have changed as I should have
And you, you still have those grey hairs
Like the rays of moonlight falling on my face now.
And when I have changed as I should have,
You still live in the city we used to live in,
Looking the way you used to look,
And maybe, just maybe, you haven't changed a bit,
The way you should have changed.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Open Doors

Of late, I have realized I left too many doors open.

I have this habit of not shutting the doors when I should, of leaving some space as tiny as a cleavage. Some doors I have shut a long time back. I didn’t simply shut them; I slammed some, the way only a teenager does when she is angry because her father snatched away her iPod. Some doors I struggled to close, one inch a day. A few of these doors are still left ajar, not awaiting someone’s arrival, but knowing there is nothing to hide behind closed doors.

Closed doors – I think it’s easy to close the doors, to hide underneath the blanket of comfort, to pretend there is no world outside. Of late, I have realized easy is no fun at all.

I have been trying to unlock the doors I shut eons ago. The rusted latches refuse to comply. Some doors I closed a few years ago, are giving up trying to stay shut.

I look at the rooms these doors protect – mostly empty, devoid of the life they once used to hold. Was it only after the treasure was stolen that the doors were locked? Or the fear of theft made me empty the rooms? Where is the treasure now? I can barely remember.

I sit on the pile of the remaining pearls. Three empty spaces stare at me – those spaces used to hold doors once, one carved of wood, one made of iron and the third was a mere curtain, pretending to be a door.

The curtain was the first to be torn. The wooden one was broken one fine morning. And the one made of iron had disappeared into thin air on one mystical night, the way rust eats up a tiny piece of nail when left unattended for ages.

I sit on the pile of the treasure left behind – a few pearls I can count on my fingers. Yesterday, I believe, the count was more. I can barely remember.

Of late, I have realized I have left too many doors open.