She wears the Earth
In the path, worn less
rain settles in a hollow
earthen bowl eroded soil
rain trickles and seeps inside
woven in the brown mud
tinged yellow with leaves
of this fall, October is it?
Evaporates and condenses
a scent, I’ve sensed
In a village, In the fields
farms, the same scent
perfume of the earth
In her, I remember.
Her hair flowing and drifting
In the monsoon winds
Eyes, dark as the nimbus clouds
Skin, she wore the earth
it’s perfume, yes she did
I remember.
Her dress, white
as the clouds in summer
red laces, painted in the morning dawn
or evening dusk?
Her lips, crooked convex
like a thunderbolt criss-cross
a beret, studded with topaz
fingers, soft as the winter snow
curved concave nose
pierced with gold
shade, not of a painter’s pallet
lustrous as the spring sunset
smooth as the November rain.
She laughed and danced
Sprinted and sang
In an autumn twilight
settling the caravan
for her
I remember.
Siddharth believes in art and all that makes life beautiful. His deepest emotions reflect in the poetry that he pens down. Not a part of his imagination but a representation of the real. Siddharth’s poetry does not force its way to you, rather it finds you and hits home.
(Feature Image Credits: Mohammad Talha)
