Pens and Pages

I wasn't old enough When I first believed in magic. Over the years, I have learned To believe in it, Even more. Believe that doors will open, Or at least, a window will do; Believe the bars will be shattered, Or at least, they will melt The way blocks of ice-cream do. I wasn't old enough, When I first saw magic, In a stranger's smile, In a bar of chocolate Handed to me out of the blue. Over the years, I have seen Magic still lingering around me. I have believed in magic, I still do. The way I stumble and fall, The day when things can't go more wrong, The way it's all good again, Faint smiles And the tears I wipe. And I still see magic Before I go to sleep The way the bird near my window Probably smiles with its weird beak. And everyday I wake up, The bird awaits my call, It flies away As I take my morning stroll. Gestures of kindness And the humble people I meet, I believe there is magic, At every step, in every deed. I am old en...

A second of eternity Pouring into a frail heart, Mouthful of love And handful of trust. Wounds that lasted But only for a moment, Have turned to rotten flesh, And used-to-be-lips-and-a-face. Then love comes again Like a rainbow on a clear-sky-day. The dark clouds must have Withered away in pain. A new skin appears now, Fresh and unsullied To be wounded again But this time, with memories.

Morbid days and morbid nights, Trees that no longer live, Blood in grandmother's hands, Red fluid that bled thick. The blood now powdered By her hands that crushed The necks of mint leaves. Baby faces on the walls Painted yellow and pink. The same faces haunt at night, Nights that remind them to laugh, Laugh and giggle Over their dead bodies Thrown in the kitchen garden. Trees that no longer live, Plants that died in grief, The tiny yellow leaves Of the stems that grew on the bodies, The roots that captured the hearts. The blood is now powdered, Maybe underneath grandmother's pestle. The mortar smells of rotten flesh, Grandfather's misery and mother's tears. The babies laugh as they protest, They would have bled every month anyway. Ten dead babies and a newly born, Grandmother's love and souls torn. Let the baby live That bleeds only once At the time of its death And not every month...

A lover of simple things and simple gestures as I have always been, I rub my eyes idly as I open them to celebrate the wee hours of the morning. An unusual air of serenity surrounds me each morning when I manage to wake up before the sun rises. The tiny alarm clock on my table confirms that it’s six. Half an hour of walking around the beautiful lake nearby leads me to my favourite destination – the tea shop. Those were the days when life was as simple as it should have been. I had just left my previous company. There were another two weeks left for me to go home, which, in turn, meant another week free of the worries of packing my clothes and selling the furniture. I decided those days would be completely mine – days of my very own life dedicated to solely the one true owner of it. I would walk for half an hour or cycle for a few minutes each morning. I would sit on my favourite seat in the park, hum songs that heal my soul, and dance to the tunes of those songs in my ...