…It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.….
my eyes walked through WH Auden’s lines one last time.
The path from here is not clear enough, and I wanted to ask
someone how to reach the riverbed where I can grieve alone.
I laid the book aside, stood up, and walked over to the window.
That’s me on that street corner, where I should not be,
staring at that face near the window before it closed,
then the darkness that taunted me with words,
which never left me since then. Everyone whispered around
– she is growing sadder by the moment, let’s erase all the old messages
in the message box, make it more spacious for new people to walk by,
take a quick look at her picture. Sure, it would not be too hard for one
to scribble a kind word. She is growing paler by the moment and refusing
to concentrate on all that work she is supposed to finish.
There is a crack across the wall, and someone is peering into a face
swollen, bitter, screwed tight, like it is in tears, after having been bruised.
How does it reach this stage? Would not it be just the right thing to blame the face
for its condition? Someone wants to give it a fresh coat of paint in brighter shade.
Thus, my street where I live on grew a little bigger. A bit more crowded.
The breeze swirling around the branches of Indian Jamoon tree softened its calls for me.
And I am surprised by the various kisses and hugs of many kinds, people are capable of.
Someone left his window wide open and put new songs on his player.
If I sit quietly enough in my room, where the darkness has started building
new houses on all four walls, everything – the chair, the bed, the lampshade in the corner, the books, the soft shades on the windows, turns to me, to engage me with some dialogue.
But I am weary of all these efforts. I am weary of all who come with words.
I make my way to the island covered in a layer of silence. Before that,
I left a few messages for him. Scrubbed my face, my skin, not so hard
that I can sleep with the fragrance of his kisses. For one more night.
Do not be furious with me, I am not resentful about the mess collected in the dustbin.
I said a lot on that evening. That’s how I ceased to live in this world.
It may take some more time to run back into your arms.
But, for now, let me prepare for the short walks that I take between two streets, these days. The lost and the unforgotten. I stand on that street corner calling out a name.
The wind blows my hair like fallen leaves, as I still self under the window praying
that it would break open one day.
R.E.M’s Everybody Hurts :http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91euxMQ0Zyg