20 january 2019
Get me that old house of spring.
Anyone who is as rich as my memories can get that.
Fifty years!
I longed for that.
That place of happy giggles and peaceful hibernations.
Sitting in this dilapidated house of winter,
my thoughts get into that fifty year old vintage bus.
Caught in the web of wedding pain,
I traveled to this unknown land.
But I was still dreaming in that house of spring, unable to wake up.
Fifty years ago,the fallen gulmohars whispered while I swung.
The walls of the house treasured my unheard stories.
Every time I entered it,
I used to smell happiness and peace.
And then,time flew away to nowhere.
Fifty years later,my septuagenarian eyes visualise it.
I see the web of spiders hanging in silence,
the aged ghosts wandering and whizzing,unable to catch hold of a pillar.
It's threshold still seems to beckon me longing for a home.
Children of mine loved and looked after then,
live in their happiness and business now.
Why at this age? That house is a mess!they tell me.
They do not know the scarlet gulmohars of that messy house
which gave way to the crimson summer flowers of Euphorbias,
messing up my only life with deadly thorns.
The scars of my delicacy and servitude,
each of fifty years of age,ooze out memories at my pain.
Now that I see it closer and clearer,
I hear the sound of excavation.
I feel my spirits already up from the six feet land
to occupy the highest branch of that gulmohar tree!
A.C
Get me that old house of spring.
Anyone who is as rich as my memories can get that.
Fifty years!
I longed for that.
That place of happy giggles and peaceful hibernations.
Sitting in this dilapidated house of winter,
my thoughts get into that fifty year old vintage bus.
Caught in the web of wedding pain,
I traveled to this unknown land.
But I was still dreaming in that house of spring, unable to wake up.
Fifty years ago,the fallen gulmohars whispered while I swung.
The walls of the house treasured my unheard stories.
Every time I entered it,
I used to smell happiness and peace.
And then,time flew away to nowhere.
Fifty years later,my septuagenarian eyes visualise it.
I see the web of spiders hanging in silence,
the aged ghosts wandering and whizzing,unable to catch hold of a pillar.
It's threshold still seems to beckon me longing for a home.
Children of mine loved and looked after then,
live in their happiness and business now.
Why at this age? That house is a mess!they tell me.
They do not know the scarlet gulmohars of that messy house
which gave way to the crimson summer flowers of Euphorbias,
messing up my only life with deadly thorns.
The scars of my delicacy and servitude,
each of fifty years of age,ooze out memories at my pain.
Now that I see it closer and clearer,
I hear the sound of excavation.
I feel my spirits already up from the six feet land
to occupy the highest branch of that gulmohar tree!
A.C
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