The dead Shiuli tree stands like a grave Mourning its unborn flowers. I hated picking them up every morning From our little backyard soil During Durga Puja The air hung heavy with the sweet scent While ants crawled up my feet Mosquitoes feasted on my flesh But once my basket was full I'd stare at their beauty The little white flowers Throbbing with their little saffron hearts Sang of a time Calmer and earthy A time of faith in a goddess With as many as ten hands To defeat evil A celebration danced with Beats of the dhaak. Now my hands are full With questions and silences I want a basket to hold To rush through the new Puja magazine To breathe in the fragrant breeze. The flowers have dropped Through the emptiness between my fingers The colours have faded Before my overworked eyes. The storm took away the tree one night And left me stranded With the dead arms of a broken tree Wailing for a hug; Now I'm grieving something I never thought I cared for. Mellowing in memories of the past I shut my eyes of today I hope for nothing more.
mimimusing 