Friday, October 22, 2010

The Evening Breeze

The Evening Breeze
Often , I lie solus,
On white sand-banks
Of the large pond
In my ancestral land,
When the evening breeze
Gently touches the divinity,
Hidden somewhere in mortal body:
I feel I cannot normally feel.

Oh! I wish the evening breeze,
Too heavenly and wondrous,
Brought out my grandmother
Sleeping just under,
With whom I used to enjoy the breeze,
On these sands white,
In green days, later became defoliate!
Indeed , it can if it willed.

The evening breeze brings
Smell of soap suds,
Which forms on mind-board
The damsel in the nude;
Soon, the breeze brings
Holiest odour
Of frankincense and incense smoulder:
So in the breeze I sin  and purge.

Often, I lay tired on sands;
All sweat drops dried in the evening breeze;
All my spirit revived;
And fresh morrow waited.
Evening chants of diverse creeds:
All in breeze united.
Seraphic breeze pats on every head,
Still nobody sees it.



In her layette she looked fair.
‘Nimisha’, parents called her.
When aged five, polio plucked the strings,
Which  moved her legs,
And as a string less violin, her legs lay.
In wheel chair she grew up,
Along with her mother’s tension,
And father’s anxiety.

Rustic children wish her,
But nobody takes her
To the festival
In the shrine rural.
She wore new dress,
But as the butterflies in her frock,
She also cannot flit
To the shrine yard.

Today also, the cough waves
Shake her lungs.
Drum beat and cymbal clash distant
Move her fingers in rhythmic wind.
Clarion in her ears does resonate,
And does ripple thoughts divine.
She never knew
Pneumonia packing her soul.

Serenity of twilight lost,
As drums and cymbals did again outburst.
Few knew Nimisha swooned.
Later, people murmured,
“Being holy, an apt day it is.”
In emptiness infinite,
Parents knew her truly.
Wheel chair in to the dust withdrew.