Today, a new hope surges in her,
Life’s blows from yesterday buried.
she shakes off the sorrow,
some happiness she rubs on,
and ahead she moves on.
Some remnants of the past cling on,
but them, she fears not,
after all, from those ashes,
did the new her rise.
A funny thing is life, she muses,
when the rocks of the bottom,
melt and below there lies,
a dazzling new world.
Of hope and happiness.
The shroud of clouds have now gone,
giving way to a new moon,
and a million new stars,
who reflect the twinkling
of those tiny hopes
budding in her heart.
Her new heart.
The frail man, ravaged by time, duped by life, lies in the makeshift bed of tattered clothes, staring at the roof.
Today it is studded with just the tiny little dots, trying their best to cast a glow on the earth below, soldiers trying hard to hold the fort in the absence of their leader.
He finally shuts his eyes.
In the darkest of nights, the deepest of wounds open up. With no moon to shine its light,the pain creeps out of the recesses.
And it forces him to open up the path to his past.
Homeless. Thats what they call him now. But not long ago, he was what society called a ‘respectable man’. His mind conjures up the image of his home, his business, and the wife who left him. A woman he still pines for.
One day, life was good. The next day all went wrong.
A wrong decision, a failed business, bankruptcy- blow after blow life had handed him and before he could recover, he had lost everything.
The wife left, friends disappeared, family turned their backs.
He opens his eyes again. The pain is relentless.
He stares at lights going out in the houses on the street, imagining goodnight kisses, prayers for a better tomorrow and a naive belief that life will remain the same.
He wipes away a lone tear. And smiles. A knowing smile.
Who knows who is next.
As the sun slices the darkness,
they kiss goodbye, yet again.
Light is a bitter truth
the dew drop and the rose face each day.
She is not afraid,
she is not meek,
to pave her own path,
to accept challenges,
She is all woman,
she is power
Tears do not control her,
threats do not dwarf her,
head held high, she fights back.
She is all woman,
she is power.
Win she will as she always has,
she never has given up.
Life can serve her as many
bad deals as it can,
she does not care.
For has learnt to play the game.
She is all woman,
She is power.
Each year, just a turn in time,
a change of calendars,
Same me, same you,
Yet, carry the hopes over,
Bid goodbye to the ones shattered.
Nurse those broken dreams back to health,
build some new ones as you go.
There are things to learn, and unlearn.
To let go and to hold on,
To give up and to not.
A horizon of myriad colours beckons,
tempts with sweet unknowns,
promises to be a good one, hand to heart,
whispers, you will win, no matter what,
Sometimes she is afraid, very afraid. Of the shadows that fall across the room after the happy sun goes down. She sits, huddled in a corner, listening to the noise of silence. A distant roar of a car, a baby wailing in the apartment below her, the blare of music across the street where those young people live.
She is young too, she knows. But inside she is ancient. Hammered by life, twisted by fate, she grew old and afraid before she knew what was happening.
She glances at the mantelpiece, two faces in a cracked picture frame smile down at her. Two faces. A handsome rugged man holding a young dark haired boy. Her two little pieces of sunshine. She smiles back tenderly at them. She misses them. She wonders what they would have been doing now if they were still with her.
She would be cooking dinner, the TV would be playing Ellen, their favourite show. The house would be lit up, bright and dazzling. The air would be saturated with love and happiness, warm and cozy.
But it is just darkness now.
She is afraid of the darkness, because it mirrors the emptiness of her soul, makes her realise that life is now just this – a darkness filled with memories of what was and fantasies of what could have been.
As the photo keeps on their smile, hers slowly fades.
Plans go awry sometimes,
A spanner in the works,
A stumble, a fall,
A few dark clouds,
That is life.
But dream on,
Someday, one day,
the dark clouds will part,
the sun will show,
A rainbow will form,
And at the end of it,
success will await,
with a pot of gold.
A riot of colours she is,
A sip of sparkling wine.
Her laughter the gentle tinkling,
of a distant church bell,
Her sorrow a cloudy day.
She mesmerises, she teases,
her heart that of a child’s,
her smile, the blush of a rose,
her anger, the flare of a fire,
her love, an ocean with no end.
She is full of curves and complexities,
A universe with thousand of galaxies,
She is a joy to behold,
a love to fall in,
a sorrow to own,
a pain to bear,
one to belong.
She is a thousand slivers of broken light.
A shimmering illusion that I can’t catch.
Love, I do, the mirage that is she,
A dream I cling on to, a light I cannot yet see.
At nights, the moon whispers to me,
that somewhere she awaits,
holding a light to fill my darkness
The moon laments that she is brighter,
And her aura blinds him too.
As I walk and hunt for her,
walking empty streets full of men,
but devoid of souls.
The sun angrily tears my skin,
Screaming that she is as fierce as him.
I do not know what I am looking for,
Eluded, she has me till now,
But find her, I will, I have to,
For in those thousand broken rays
That are her, I will find me,
in her, I will shine.
The stories churn in her head. She is just 12, but her thoughts have elevated to where her age has not yet.At nights, she fills up notebooks with her stories, of fairies, ghouls, soldiers, wars, voyages and dragons, capturing her imagination which usually moves faster than she can write.
“She is so gifted,” her papa sighs as he hands her mama yet another notebook. He lives in continuous disbelief of this prodigy he has produced.
Years have now passed by, this girl has grown up. There she is, carrying a shopping bag in one hand, a toddler in the other. She rushes home, cooks dinner for her family, cleans up, puts the baby to bed.
She sits to try again today, to write a story. But again, not a word comes out. She finds her mind drifting to the tasks that tomorrow is ready to hand out.
She digs out the old notebooks, again.
As she reads the fables that her own hand had written, her eyes swim in tears.
There was one story that she had not thought about, the one that came in the way of her other stories- life.
The calming whirring of the fan,
the ticking of the clock,
the breeze rustling the curtains,
the orange glow of the dying sun,
she soaks in the moment.
A moment of solitude,
A pause, a break, an escape,
from the cacophony called life.
She reflects on the hidden future,
Unravelled past and uncertain present.
The moment whispers to her,
says to her that she will be ok.
Life’s peaks she will scale,
Through its troughs, she will sail.
The silence kisses her,
telling her she will be fine.
She starts humming a tune,
From a song she knows not,
the music of silence adds the beats.
Hope unfurls, often in darkness.
when dead ends are all you find,
when the road ahead is hazy,
when life sucks out all light.
Surely, a flicker of hope
still sits in your heart’s recesses,
after all Pandora’s box had it,
so how can your heart not?
You can stumble, you might fall,
but do pick yourself up,
and dust yourself off,
and plod on ahead.
Come on, trudge on,
to the finish line, for be sure,
the fog will lift from the road ahead,
the yellow blob will reappear.
If hope sits within you,
so will success, very soon.
Giving up is never an option,
For you, my dear friend, are born to win.