Oct 29, 2022
Interwoven
An analogy between love in juxtaposition with ignorance.
My sweltering cheeks in Delhi’s summer
began to reflect a blue glow of Christmas
after the dearest sun distanced, ritualistically.
He was far but there, always there.
And soon back in its spring position
to rejoice with me as an unattested witness
of the brushes which bruised me and the bristles which caressed me,
curves that enraged me and the strokes which enthralled me
while I was painting the canvas of my life.
As a child, on the advent of every new school year
I was most excited about the art classes.
Sensing the blossoming flowers,
my fingers wiggled at the sight
of the new crayon box.
With every revolution,
the box grew bigger, more vibrant and chic than ever.
Don’t be fooled by the tone of my poem.
My mischievous fingers like to romanticize everything.
I am no artist.
Rather,
I am an amateur observer.
Who relish in watching the ordinary paper
print the antics of mind reflecting
what we always knew, but chose to neglect.
Much like the sun.
When the Turkish muscles butcher the Armenians
when the Russian fists blow the Ukrainians
they know that their blood is the same shade of red.
When the white men torture the black men,
when the royals humiliate our kind,
they know that all of us will be engulfed
by the same brown soil.
But unfortunately,
the feelings of oneness are never enough alone,
to acknowledge the truth that lies beyond
the labyrinth of wavelengths.
That the blue, the green and the white
are all the particles of one light.
Indeed,
we are stubborn beings,
who frequently need an observant illuminator
to enlighten the virtuous path.
Just like the sun,
who hesitantly yet incessantly
approaches me every summer,
only to re-realize each time,
that he will burn us both.
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Do read my other poems…
