When Memories Fade

Seems I have nearly forgotten how softness feels,
forgotten the feel of tender love and
the sound of her whispers, satisfied.

The soothing warmth of her faith, firm
around my blunt soul ever rebelling
and the taste of her fluid smile too are forgotten.

As if the vigor of her memories were drained,
so they could not live through the winter last,
the harshest I have seen so far.

Though it is gone a week almost,
traveling south and downward on the globe
as the glowing sun slowly to the north returned,

what the warm sun and the cold haze of the winter
have for ages done, like two lovers in wild love
on their bed, the sky, blue and vast,

there are still no signs of the spring
and from the appearance of things right now
the spring just might be unusually late this year.

While the barren, scorching days too dry, loomed ahead
and my urge to sense her softness again
with my ragged skin is on the rise

there are still no signs of the spring
and from the appearance of things right now
it seems as though the spring might never come this year.

Instead of mellow love and care, indifference
and in place of the prolific wonders of rain,
I knew this year droughts would ravish me, when I saw,

instead of her memories, soaking wet
with just the soothing warmth needed to belong
only a dry, sterile wind has returned.

Then I knew the agony of an empty brain
once I have tried in vain to recall through the night
those sweet feelings and sounds that were to me dearer,
once not too long ago, than even my own life.

An Eerie Night (Edited by Pradeep Bhatt)

And weight of the darkness
descends upon the weary world;
the urban air is stale and calm;
though the midnight is history,
the morning is still far.
The road lays mostly barren save when
the lorries tumble through the night,
carrying loads and loads of bricks,
for the city to multiply itself.
The dogs that are not fed
are too tired to bark or scout.
And I, in my aimless lingering
pause below a street lamp
crowded by fireflies, thinking
“who goes and for the love of what?”
A hooded rickshaw rolls by in silent laughter;
the sated dogs – yawn,
to my disbelief I hear, “… for food.”

An Eerie Night (Edited)

…And the weight of darkness
descends upon the weary world;
the urban air is stale and calm;
though midnight is history, the morning
still far. The road mostly barren
save when lorries shred through the night
with loads of bricks for the city
to multiply itself.
The dogs that are not fed by then
are all too tired to bark or scout…
And my thoughts are scattered
more like fireflies in the wind,
never idle for more than a pause;
hungry fluttering of their wings
are figures of speech for me…
Suddenly the air, stale and calm
smells like the sweet jasmine;
scattered thoughts wondering,
“who goes and for the love of what?”
The hooded rikshaw rolls on the ground
in silent laughter; the sated dogs –
yawn, in disbelief hear, “… for food.”

Love Song Of The Night

And then she held these calloused hands
While walking down the path that never ends.
She laid a kiss and whispered her secrets
To the flowing wind. But the words
Were lost behind the rustling dark leaves.
Dim shadows all around. The trees,
Proud while each having a tale of its own,
Painting a ladder on the road.
The prairies below, so long as the moon
Was bare from one lonely cloud,
Looked silver and green while the soft bluish light
Rippled on the grass, like gentle waves.
The violet flowers slept in their cradles
That swayed along. The night heavy
With the strong aura of some wilder bloom.
But then she raised her face and looked at those
Faraway eyes to see, however hard
She might have tried to break loose, she could go
Nowhere else. Fate would send her reeling back
To this ancient eerie path, unbound and free.

An Eerie Night

The weight of darkness like black fog
Descends upon the world.
The urban air is stale and calm
When midnight is history and
Morning is far. The road mostly barren
Save when lorries shred through the night,
With loads to multiply
The city, brick by brick.
The dogs that are not fed by then
Are all too tired to bark or scout.

Thoughts are scattered, unlike darkness
At night that’s same everywhere.
Thoughts are rather like butterflies,
Never idle for more than a pause.

Butterflies flying beneath a bright blue sky;
Hungry fluttering of their wings
Become figures of speech for the poet!

The stale air smells sweet like jasmine.
Scattered thoughts wondering
Who goes and for the love of what?

The hooded rikshaw rolls on the ground
In silent laughter. The sated dogs
Yawn, in disbelief hear, “… for food.”