The tree has a lane to stand
And the flowers have a hand to bloom.
What about us - two cartographers sometimes forgetting that
exile dances in continuous tense 
and foolishly search for safety ?
At nights we indulge the beauty of moon
who doesn't know
how the dirt in our lanes taste like.
For us poems are hunting trails,
we desperately tries to cover 
with the prayers of last hukkahs 
and fogged glasses of languages.
Like winter bragging about 
the holiness of snowfall, 
we romanticise our pains,
loading up our backpacks 
with metaphors like Santaclaus.
But in reality we are reindeers 
dragging ourselves through days, 
in hope of pastures full of daisies.
We are a pair of penguin eyes
with distinct prints.
We are two post offices
facing mailing crisis.
In other words 
we are made of same alluvial soil 
on the banks of a river 
that no longer exists.
So, when I say I know you,
trust me.
And listen to me translating
the echoes running through
our throats like seismic waves.
Let me tell you that
the butterflies are eavesdropping 
to listen to your laughs.
Let me tell you that
Your life is not a crime.
Let me tell you that
I love you in your damaged glory, 
one that is soft as the terrain rain, 
one that is fierce as afternoon sun.
Let me tell you that 
all I dream about is 
to burn like a candle to
warm your feets
in your lonely nights.
Let me tell you that 
I love you dearly.



    ♡ For Saakshi 

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