Anthology II—English
i was left alone, in the cold
nights went by, slowly — with echoes
of raindrops on a shattered pane
succeeding, cascading, falling in waves
and shivering tides — i shifted
to absence, dropped the scales
unbalanced and diluvian the clouds weighed
on my heart and the sky — you kept me
tethered to your heart and though
it is now gone my chains still bind me to loss
inescapable — your specter follows me
wherever i hide, assuming your story has eyes
i find repose and recluse
i mourn — you
are the shadows beneath my feet
and the sun too, the chimes and wind
you surround me, your ghost — darkly
exudes the pain you brought with you
and bittersweet is the spectacle
of your infusion — the living
you continue to grip slyly, as vines,
when will your branches
suffocate my foliage — the last leaf fallen
that your void will be cleared at last
that i may carry
and you may rest
—
slowly in the streets you drifted
thoughtlessly, as jellyfish
following the currents of some unfelt ascendance
guiding you as magnets
drawing you in a maelström
inexorably —
to the river banks, the gothic bridges crooked
and yet somehow syntonic
darkened you roamed
aimlessly, your ego awash
with the invisible fog, the filigree of
ever-thin unpolished gold
surrounding you — draped
like a sheet over broken statues
and shattered mirrors, puddles no longer reflect
and neither do you — yet you keep advancing
in circles though somehow further away
from home
under black clouds you wandered
listlessly, exit the stilted glow of streetlights
enter pain, sharp, tracking you down
through — around —
and encompassing the alleyways that seem
brighter almost than the neon-lit boulevard
torpor ensues — your strained eyes
pine for the silence of a blotted-out blue
—
too long left in the warmth
of a summer midday
the clouds forever now
are warped
and the sky, too, convex
is dimmed,
as a mirror in the mist
the blur in my eyes, that of the pane
confused, blinded,
cracked, fractured, growing slivers
of imploded aluminium and a glassen void
i no longer see us
as constellations, coursing alongside the sun
days past no longer seem as the milky way
a long streak of light, now oblique, wavering
as though by some shift in my tired gaze
oh, i no longer see the stars
one by one they are distorted
out of existence
the curved sky no longer lets them through
to me, to us, you no longer seem
as Libra in the sky, rather a single dying light
eclipsed by the northern star
and the new moon
forever
lost
—
through the pane, across the courtyard
a tree — fir or pine, who knows anymore?
anyway it has been travelled
at length, the minutes since its uprooting counted
as needles drape the cold floorboards
this is the season, the façade, the view
one will have of the house, and the mood, and the days
the banalities of the living room shall be
tinted, infused with a light savour
of winter and warmth — a pale surrogate
for a family, for a world,
the tree locked behind the double-paned windows
pines for the candour of a frank winter frost.
—
Also read more of my writing on my Medium and tilde.town page.
