A patch of early autumn sun
falls on the stone and boulder wall,
green with moss and tiny ferns,
A lonely mountain bird dives
and glides up in the grey – blue sky.
She sits with a lost- in- woods look in her eyes,
(Your eyes are touched with gold, honey! He used to say)
Silence of yester years shivers with hows and whys!
Echoes of past fade in the crunch of autumn leaves,
brown and red, dry and crisp beneath his feet,
She sees a cloud of shadow settle on his face,
Pain has its own terrible beauty, a tragic grace,
a gentle fire that licks the soul
slowly, steadily, silently,
till you forget how and when you lost yourself,
where on the way?
Their glances meet , searching yet withdrawn
his eyes, grey as raven, hers, all fawn,
He reads all writings in her eyes,
Where speech fails, eyes say it all,
More salt than pepper in his hair now,
(how her heart skips a beat to see,)
and his eyes , a fathom less deep.
Her eyes are silent pools of pain, her hands are bare,
(Where’s her bracelet, that keepsake ? He stares)
Darkness drops in , unannounced,
She wraps her shawl around , he tries to look away,
(When he thought he had so much to say?)
Soul less journeys run a flashback show,
For all we know, silent wars are fought in mind ,
How many breaths does it take to heal a grieving heart?
How many years does it take to mend an aching hurt?
So few years lie ahead, so few breaths left,
Before we step into the valley where the sun never sets,
Past is a city of pain, we’ve long been there, let’s be fair.
Come home, Shyamali, it’s never too late to return.
Hold my hand lest fireflies of hope fade away forever.