WE ARE FINE

 We laugh our tiny lungs dry, running through creeks barefoot knowing that if we fall, it is the end. 

Every second is a tomato seed, so small, but staining the soul blood red. 

Still we shelter the moments under the wings of rain in a distant hope.

We don't believe that there are honest mothers and soft fathers, nor did we believe in Gods. 

But before going to bed we pray for two minutes in silence, because what if the world ends today night? 

We press our sorrows like goldenrodes between the pages of our favorite novels, and listen to old mourhain songs hiding in riverside tombs. 

We take chemical baths in the kitchen sink resisting the mean winds of future.

We try to write ABAB poems,but everything comes out like a preserved autumn fruit, strange to have in a winter night.

We are the odd one out in a group, staying silent in the middle of a party like the modest wings of a city sparrow at a London night.

We eat  chocolate cakes until our mouth turns sick of it, trying to hold on the thin polyester fur of life. 

We tell ourselves that we are safe and happy somewhere, only not sure where the place is. 

Our hearts are made in the moulds to be broken and then to be mended, like a ritual prayer or unimportant sacrifice.

Our skins pale as a piece of sugared lemon, we stand on a sea shore knowing that the sea is the second largest graveyard, 

first being our hearts.

We are fine.

We are.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

 I am longing for death.  Forever longing for it.When people around me crave to live, do everything to have a life, I could never understand it. I could never understand the meaning of their desire. I always wanted to die… slowly, painlessly, and alone. Over time, my death instinct  became an inexorable habitual thought. The yearning to merge into an infinite darkness is there, always. The swelling torment I can't put into words. There was nothing, until him, that could dilute my urge to die. I used to think I can hold on a little, until he disappeared. I was obsessed to wither completely.  Look at me now. I think I have died, when he left. What a metaphor, the old cliché, you may think. I can declare this without embarrassment, but I can't express it. It is really so heavy to be afforded by my vocabulary, thoughts, and consciousness... Many moons ago, I listened passively to Nee Mattume by T.M. Krishna. And yesterday night, like a little miracle, it came back to me...
Read more

THE BOOK OF SETHI

PROLOGUE: THE FIRST TIME GRIEF SANG I don’t remember the first time I heard Ali Sethi. I remember what I lost when I did. Something inside me— the part that kept sorrow folded beneath my tongue— opened its eyes. It wasn’t music. It was recognition. A voice that didn’t arrive like thunder, but like memory—slow, precise, mercifully cruel. It sang in the key of ache I inherited but never named. This is not about songs. It’s about the ruins they left glowing. It begins, always, with silence. And then: Ali. 1 TO THE VOICE THAT ARRIVED BEFORE STORM Some nights, I don’t know if it’s rain, or your voice pressing its forehead against my window. Ali, you don’t sing— you stitch. Each word, a needle pulling centuries through my skin. I keep your ragas in my wrists— they flutter when grief walks in, asking for tea and permission to stay. Who gave you the right to know what longing sounds like before I could name it? Who taught your throat to echo the ache I buried beneath my mother tongue? Sometime...
Read more
If love is peeling oranges, then  God is the transcultural smell  residing inside crescent of fingernails. Consuming prayers,  a bead of fragility in hands,  he tells you that : In love we are blind,  In love we are far sighted. His delicate crockeries inside  a filthy broken sink is  his metaphor for us. The way he scrub them is his synonym for violent love  and antonym for soft grief. Once in a while, the shards of his anger  turns me into a silent film  suffocating under city lights. Then you change into a morning  with mourning , Into a ship torn under monsoons, Into a broken concave mirror, Into a prime number in solitude, Into a black hole singing opera. Still we exchange kisses with words  inside  the holes on our throat.  God chain smoking in his evening gown interrupt us with a question,  What is your religion? This is when a love letter switch into  a propaganda poem  written by plum faced ang...
Read more