On verses yet to unfold

The halls seem desolate. The rooms, rather impersonal. Like the last breath has left a body. Only, here the rooms await someone else. Melancholy inhabits the spaces, in the meantime.

Another onam has passed. Someone died today, as the sun came up.

I’ll pack my bags again and move tomorrow. In the meantime, I linger and ponder on whether these trees will miss me. How I have stayed and dreamt with these trees day and night. They look beautiful. I should pack.

Are all notions of permanence mere transitory thoughts?

It might be preposterous to imagine, that my presence here mattered. The day will look just the same tomorrow.

*
What are we really working upon – each day – every single day of our very short lives? What are we building? What should we be building? A family, a name? Are they incongruous to each other? Where lies that fine balance?

The echoes of the past reverberate through stories and monuments. Walk into an old tomb and listen to the stories of yesteryears- stories of workers that laid hands on every sculpture there is. They must have measured out every angle of every chin of every sculpture. They have left behind, a witness to their existence.

What is my monument? What is my grand story? All these seemingly regular days; these winds I whisper to; these moments I so love – what will they translate to?

“That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
– Walt Whitman (O Me! O Life!)

What will my verse contain? Maybe, I’ll know… soon enough.

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2 thoughts on “On verses yet to unfold

  1. A poetry in a prose I must say. The touch of melancholy and the silence of time. Hope whatever unfolds is a master-piece of art. Keep imagination on highs till it is reality. As Pablo Picasso says “Everything you can imagine is real.”

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