It must end
Like the kalpavasis
Romancing the unknown
And the world
With the face
Of a postman
Visible from the window
Handing an envelope
All so official
When the clouds hang
Far too low
Threatening to burst
Just around the evening
Driving the pigeons
Out of control
The trees and flowers
Breaking into silence
I wonder, is it for me
I have not held
For long a cover
Delivered at the door
With sealed mystery
Anticipation building
In the end it is for me;
A painted childhood
On broken glasses
Tree trunk scrapings
And the bulbs
That could not be lighted
The angry bursts
Running wild to explore
Only to finish safe and secure
Around the warm Angeethi
Just to hold
Paper and pen
And let flow the ink
The numbers and synonyms
That could not be finished
Music of sorts
Fashions that did not last
In search of what
Accepted by heart
Of a superior mind
Fiery relationships
Emerging losses
One-sided confidences
Unmediated consequences
And an escaped life;
Fortunes change
Moderations begin
Achievements show
Above all careless dreams
Hoisting pride
In its course
Building families
Decorated homes
In troubled times
Relying on one’s own
Meticulous workings
And happy friends
Peaceful nights, busy days
Browsing through
A thousand photos
In the cupboard
Neatly placed
And all those pages
Among the yellowed newspapers
That had charmed
Over and over
Sitting back
Rocking the chair
In the end;
It was me.
