.
.
It's the secret of life to find ourselves
In places where a boy once diswon his reflection
And fold his shadow into folds of hell
To survive the deadness forming fortresses
Over his body- (a castle of pale memories)
.
There are some who call birds- angels
And the stars- children of coloured smiles
They'll sit at night with their shadows
Talking deep to the moon with wounded tongues
Some who sit on lonely windows
Waiting for a hand to cuddle and lead them home
And to meet the silence in their hearts
And some who make nest
Out of lame places- like streets with dead names
They'll wear their scars as crown
And call themselves kings of burnt kingdoms
.
It was how they were taught to find light in their tunnels
.
I have learnt that people must
Lose their bodies to the wind
To reach the Canaan in the vowels of their
Father's name and the consonants on his tongue
That home is a place somewhere in our bones
Where a boy wraps himself in solemn notes
And sing songs that could blend water
With the fire in his lover's eyes
And that some memories
Don't die- they live till our bodies
Become too cold to live on breathing soils
And our souls- a fading star
.
When you see me writing under the stars
And under the silence of moon-ful nights
It's because I've learnt to carry home in my pen
To everywhere, even to places where existence is a lost song and places where love lives in broken walls
