The Seven Colours

N.B.: A few concepts have been reused.

Dancing shadows—

Flickering flames of rebellion

Made an impression on the blurred pane,

While outside, raindrops

Wetted lives, or

Flooded dreams.

A child gave a thought:

“Can rainbows come up at night?”

Morning—

Amidst drenched walls and shattered pathways

Of life,

Seven colours appeared on the smoky sky—

Incongruous it seemed.

A child from the terrace of a multi-storey building

Asked his father, “Isn’t that beautiful!”

But straight below—

Where the stark miseries of life seemed comfort,

Where raindrops seemed as innumerable as miseries,

Gaunt lips—

No water, no shape—

Failed to savour the colours.

Smoke-filled eyes—

No gleam, no sorrow—

Being blinded, withdrew.

While these went unnoticed,

I was still watching the rainbow.

Red—

The blood of desire;

Steaming thoughts and

The desire of red rebellion

On a new day—

A new day.

Orange—

“Fruit?” asked the dying child;

“Delicious!” said the parvenu.

Yellow—

Sodium lights still dared to shine

Under the sun—

“Paddy fields?” asked the beggar.

Green—

The life of humanity—

Pervaded the city;

While crooked brown leaves

Near green grass,

Lay in shame.

Blue—

By the side of a blue river,

A heartbroken soul sat weeping,

Desiring to die.

While by the sides of a ‘blue’ drain,

Hundred souls were counting their last hours,

Desiring to live.

The sun hid its face

And the rain came down—

“Rainbows don’t come up at night”

Said I to myself.

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My Lonely Swing

My lonely swing at the end

Of the green grass

Still creaks in this heat:

Some leaves resting there

And hundred raindrops wetting it,

It sings it lonely song.

Maddened by the wind

And comforted by the tree,

The rusted swing still creaks

In the dusty afternoon.

On and on.

Rusted, dirty and unkempt—

Back in the corner,

Lies what once had been my ride.

Webs of delusion

Spun by the spiders

Have shrouded the pathways

And the singer can’t be heard anymore.

Lights of the long lane

Still guide the stranger;

But to a lonely land.

A lonely land—

Where no one speaks,

Where no one plays,

Where everyone has deserted

Everyone else;

At a stroll that evening,

My eyes pictured fan blades

Moving at the speed of life

And the light becoming dim.

Gaudily dressed women

Made it look like Autumn

While it was summer still.

A broken soul thinks and speaks

To himself and me,

His doubts and his sorrows

Are all about the bad world;

A thinker now, he is beginning to learn.

The last time I noticed ‘Land sold’

Was nine years back,

And since then I haven’t treaded that field.

Some have gone away,

Some have passed away;

But their memories still linger in my old lane:

My old lane.

Lifeless, desolate and silent—

The dust-covered lane

Still cries out to its lost people to return:

To return.

Here, away from the breezy memories

Of the erstwhile days,

I watch thousand raindrops

Sliding down the roofs

And take frequent walks

In a drenched evening—

Thinking, Dreaming, Living.

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