There are remnants of you in here.

The taste of your voice lies undiluted,
pervading the air.

Sometimes, in the dead of the night,
when the crickets have stopped their night-time chat
the walls throw your echoes at me.
And I had thought your voice had dissolved in the summer
or twisted and muffled in the rain,
the words losing sound, disfigured beyond recognition.

But no, they were always here
dispersed between the pages of a book.
And when I flip through,
they come,
singing again in your little voice.

They sing, and as the words seep in,
they paint your face,
the eyes that can calm a butterfly,
the lips where a waterfall could find rest.
Will I ever find
a lake of serenity like you again?
Will I find one
who cups the sun in her palm,
mixes her warmth in its light
and sprinkles its rays with her smile?

I sleep sleepless sleeps,
Your body languidly painting the landscape of my mind.
Your hands weaving me into a tree
that sees no autumn,
whose leaves laugh with their veins.

Yet when I wake up,
the clock wears a tired face,
and your memories drip from its hands.





The wings of my heart take it to places
where everything I see
tells me your name.

Wherever I go,
Every tree has your face covered in its leaves,
Every bird has a song whose verses seek you
You have magnetized all of them,
I was not alone.

They look for you just as I do
In the crevices of the still air
Hoping to catch your breath,
Hoping it has lingered and stayed.

They wonder, like I do,
if your laughter has sunk itself
in the screaming silence of the night.
And we all look for your silhouette
in the constellations drifting through the sky,
While the moon stays glued
As if yearning to catch a glimpse of you.

There are questions which stick in my mind
Questions that perhaps will never be answered,
Yet I hope
Like a traveller at a station waits
for a train that has left an hour ago.

When you look out of your window,
Is the flower in bloom?
Do you hear the rain trot past your end of the rainbow?
Its been months since it left my town.


The rain teases the earth,
and sprinkles on it feathers with a miserly abundance,
careful not to disrupt the reticulated cracks
in the midst of their siesta in the fields.
A seed, left forgotten,
waits to uncurl itself into a seedling.
A girl, her feet covered with wanderlust,
looks at the raindrops,
And wonders if in other lands,
it rains pebbles, or even pigeons.

In another city,
the land is being bludgeoned.
Clouds whose arrival was heralded a week ago
now come down in swarms,
a belated answer to the winter’s prayer,
A winter that had been ragged and ravaged
by the insensate summer,
A winter with broken hips and parched lips,
Whose cold breath had been paralysed
By the harsh tongue of May.
Ah, the same winter now looks from a place afar,
And is glad for the showers that envelope the town.

I stand somewhere between these two towns,
Wondering where you might be sleeping right now.