Home is the Perfect Colour
Outside the sorry skyscrapers tower to the heavens,
ladders knocking on a sky too tired to open the
door & say hello. They say the weather is
coloured by the mood of the Gods but here
is a drape of clouds hiding the Ferris wheel on
the Thames. Why do they call this river their father?
I always thought there is something quietly
feminine about a drop of water, a longing which
consumes like a beautiful drowning. Across the
mountains and deserts, Ganga ma dives into the
ocean & the air is lush with her sprinkled song. I
may not know her tears anymore but if I close my
ears I can still see in her bosom the dazzling sound
of a thousand colours.
Author’s Note: Happy Holi :)