Often, at night
when I lay myself to bed,
before the sweet sleep has
engloved me in its warmth.
I think back to the dead days;
their glory, the carefree laughter
that running through the house untamed,
those smiles that could melt one's heart.
Often, in the early morn,
I find myself tending the mighty Paarijaat
spreading it's branches in my backyard.
Standing underneath it,
surrounded by the wide carpet of white;
Every falling flower reminds me
of all the love lost.
All the haunted memories
of a saint wishing to kiss my lips,
right after I'd bathed in the Holy Ganga,
with my form doused in saffron hues;
in the wee hours of the cold morning.
Often, when I'm walking down the busy road,
my mind drifts back to
all the plans I'd crafted.
Back when my heart was pure,
untouched by the flames of sorrow.
All the distant lands, I wanted to visit.
Every foreign tongue, I wanted to speak.
And every often,
tears would flow down my cheeks.
A reminder to
all the things best left forgotten;
every soul dead to me.
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