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Mirror

I think we think alike

In despair or delight

For long years; lone

Further glow; shone

And I see you nightly

When the day is done

Once the sun goes down

For the dream to grip

And the time to slink

Through the bare lane

Upon the gush of spurt

Until the end of its urge

For I feel we see same,

Oh, my lovesome mirror

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The Symbol

Once there was a bridge that lured these hitchhikers. And the lane towards the west stooped upon the reflection of their shadows. Each of them had obsessive blot of silver linings. Like a chain of lightening tattooed across the sky. I do remember the relics of laughter. But the picture portrayed on this shale had a startling symbol.  All the promises revealed in it had happened to the hitchhiker. I remember the first day I met her, and set her as my only love in a dream. I knew she had a fondness to the roses. For I knew they had thorns – but it was worth it. Every time when I used to shuffle off in this hall of mirror space, I saw myself broken into pieces. But – there were roses shattered along with me in each of them. My journey was in between a lane to another. And the wooden bridge is all I had to cross the blockade.  As I turned back the pages in a log that I treasured close to my heart, I found a silhouette on the 27th page...

It was a wintry dawn. The day the flowers in my lawn refused to leer. They stood alone, soaked beneath the soil where we have come from – and go to. My spirits rant. They don’t pant. The symbol on that shale had a tremendous brunt. And ever since I discovered it, amidst the barren land, above the platoon where angels resided, I longed for a new beginning. Today, I remember the lane that lured the hitchhikers. And the wooden bridge dangled like a ring to the hills. For all the time spent in a hall of broken mirror space, I, and these roses craved for the same crescent face in my heart. And it beats like a child’s first taste of freedom away from his home. Do you know how it appeared to me? Do you see the symbol? As when my mind wandered across the sweet sorrows of yesteryear, I heard the distant hymn of a child. She sang a sweet song in her sweet voice. And it lured me. All I knew was that, the place had a forsaken church. And the wooden bridge was the only way to get there – to worship the grand saviour, in a place where the angels fly so lo and nigh. That silhouette... That silhouette on my log and the symbol on the shale had a similar meaning... And it guided me towards the wooden bridge once they used to hunt for... For it used to haunt all...

Today, I stand upon this bridge. The wooden bridge... And the rose flower that I have got in my hand is for her... It’s just a bridge away... When the clouds pour, and the breeze move the haze afar, I’ll take a huge step... to cross the bridge... And I still hear a sweet voice from the other side... Where the angels fly lo and night... For I should have known a long time ago that... the symbol was her love...

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The Ninth Lane

The monarch of Roman Empire rode on his steed

Through the ancient dream; once left in sadness

But the unknown loam led him to an awry byway

And it sent shivers to his cold bones; flimsy spirits

For the framed mind never firmed at the crossing

So it cruised towards the downhill, down the dale

For he knew his princess would stay; at ninth lane

And he sped across the sleety silver stream; uphill

To find the mystery lane; stretched lower the sky

For he chased until the sun gave way to the moon

And upon every twigs lingered a furtive message

Through the dark hills, towards the ninth thruway

And his steed sped to seize his dream; his fair love

Amid all the vantages; around the twelfth hour

 When the night slept away, and the dawn arose

His heart whispered of her unwearied waiting…

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Music's On

It was a Christmas Eve. The winter had seeped into the lush, green city in and transformed it into a mystical white haven. All the twinkling stars upon the trees had given colours to the ghost white snow and it looked as eerily enticing as it covered the ancient street. The roads to my house were wet, yet I pined for a bright night within the dark night.  The deep iris blue sky showered, inch by inch to buff the surface that was dry, to reflect the gleam of the lights from the rusty lamp - posts which lined the slippery streets. At every corner and turn, groups of musicians belted out soulful tunes which merged with the season's festive grandeur. The haunting beauty of the city had lured many drifters that night. I was one among them too. 

I belonged to their world…

 I am a drifter. A drifter with a song... But I am not a musician nor am I a singer. Yet, I had a special song. For a special someone...  That song had my heart in it. Every time when the common folk at the inn insisted that I sing that song, I used to look with my big brown eyes, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the face which held me captive. Her lovely face had a lonely tale. A tale which stems from her cocooned upbringing... All her dreams revolved around within those walls. Four walls…...Sometimes she felt she could hear her heartbeats echoing under the wooden roof of her room. But, ironically, she liked her room for here; she could flee from the cares of the world and weave dreams of freedom.  Then one dawn, she was awakened, disturbed, from her sleep, for she felt her vision rebounding on the walls, and lured her to the stage where ‘he’ used to play.

‘He’ was ‘I’.

And it was a Christmas Eve. The day we met. She was dressed up in the most beautiful red dress – to me. Red.  The colour of passion... The colour of my love...  Her sapphire eyes sparkled and radiated heat enough to set my heart on fire. Her smile rooted me to my spot; I was unable to look away. Her hand raised in a half - wave to me. I ran my fingers through my hair; it was a habit; an exasperating one, at times.  In it, she read the art of chaos. When the crowd moved in circles, finding someone to dance to the music that we played, I found my feet walking effortlessly towards her. Her name was not known to me. She was a mystery. But the pretty child turned back, and smiled. In her, I realized with astounding clarity, I found my love.

Years passed by....summers melted in to springs and those, in turn, gave way to many winters...

Today, as I turn back and take a stock of my life I see these musical notes, the faded posters, and the colourful scribbling on my wall... It seems like they are all urging me to sing another song. But for whom? For my love? But where is she? Where did she go? For all the years spent in this dim lit room, I had buried myself within million notes that patiently waited to be sung by someone, I sat upon this wooden chair, searching for my specs to read the line from a bunch of letters. ‘Hope’ is the most beautiful word in my dictionary. For some, it is “Love”. But I had always been an optimistic child. ‘Hope’ paves way for ‘Love’. My dreams were never complete without filling the empty space that I kept for her. She knew it. Did she? I doubt it. But never did I doubt my love for her. Look at me, I’m full of chaos. All the adventures begin when we seek for the right person at the wrong time.

And then, I found this letter, from a stranger. Perhaps, she wanted me to know how a stranger could fall in love.  She was a stranger to me, for I knew not even her name but she alone possessed the key to unlock the torrid of emotions locked up in my heart. But she knew that I was her only love. Then you ask, so have we met each other? Have we spent quality time being together? No. In fact I knew it was a big NO. When the rains fell so slow, through my window pane, I remember her, because it rains in my heart as well. Her pretty face… and her intense eyes… her passionate smile...

And that letter had a word. Hey you, did you ever read a line twice before you act? No. Now, the time has come… It’s Christmas. And I know… I very well know that it’s been fifteen years since I have laid my eyes on her… But I am a drifter, a dreamer. My job is to dream. And I deal with it if it doesn’t come true. But I don't give up hope. For, you see, Hope is the most beautiful word in my dictionary.  I am not old, but I am just forty. This Christmas, after fifteen long years is very special to me. Because I’ll be playing for one last time… On that stage… the same old stage… that stage where I saw her for the first time… the same old song that I sang for her… Where did she disappear? The clueless scenes floated in my mind. But the letter beckoned a bright ray of hope. It fixed a smile upon my dry spirits… Today I will get my answer...Today, the mystery will be solved.

And I got dressed in black… And got myself prepared for the big event, the grand finale… It’s another Christmas… The winter had seeped into the lush, green city in and transformed it into a mystical white haven. All the twinkling stars upon the trees had given colours to the ghost white snow and it looked so eerily enticing as it covered the ancient street. The roads to my house were wet, yet I pined for a bright night within the dark night. 

And the world looks so beautiful tonight… All the colours I know have been sketched across with that word... The word… that word…

And as I walked through the backstage… to perform… the song that she always loved to hear… I looked with my big brown eyes… to soak… to feel… the love she sent my way, fifteen years ago…  And from afar, I spotted a petite head crowned with auburn hair,  I held my breath and waited for it to turn....and it did......and the face which gazed upon me with awe had an undying smile and her sapphire eyes sparkled and radiated heat enough to set my heart on fire. Then I knew… and she realized it as well, with astounding clarity....that dreams never fail…

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