I am not the only one to feel the pangs of separation. The village pond waits for the return of lilies and the river bed for the black clouds. Is the short night the only solace? Even for the leaves of the gulmohour? It expands beyond the stars as I toss and turn and think of you. In the morning the sunrise is a glimmer of hope. Once again short lived. The address is missing I have only a vague idea of where you are. When the parched throat fumbles for words I devise ways to forget you by chasing away ants in mango trees or inside the cool shrine of Lord Shiva I hide myself till the sweltering afternoon kills my memory of everything. With the sun defeated it comes back in the evening as the birds return home after a tiring day and lying on the cool river sand I wait for the moon.
(Poem – 1 of the series on #IndianSeasons)