A Tale of Seasons  and other poems

I could sleep by the shore,

But then I would miss winters,

And the glory of sun at noon,

The longing I felt every time it set,

Frequent undressing of some wounds.

I could wait for the rebirth of Lazarus,

Like some stories you never forget,

And follow light of the world,

If only magic could heal those wounds,

I would pray with open hands.

I keep waiting for those winters,

When we would sit in the park,

The common love for bespectacled,

As the sun and books kept us company,

While the lonely beggar sold his scars.

But then someone spoke of a grim winter,

The unplugged cries circling in a loop,

Parallel lanes ready for their troops,

I had to ask for some magic potion,

And a little extra space for traction.

I sometimes forget the count of my lies,

Empty relief in lengthy chaotic seasons,

As the wind blows and sun moans,

The pain of a stuck three toed hoof, 

My veracity has been marked into zones.

I have grown to like spring now,

As a sojourn of forgotten existence,

Waits patiently in a gloomy corner,

A pen resting calmly in a pocket,

And the creaky door whistles out a tune.

The seasons have tired me a little,

They keep playing their routine,

I have grown less afraid of the act,

Though I fall asleep midway sometimes,

Like the shared sense of urgency in crimes.

I had seen bits and colours of autumn,

The withered dried up leaves,

But it’s difficult getting past a few,

As the magic begins to fade,

And you feel the pain of those dead souls.

You never picked them up,

Even as autumn came before winters, 

It might have rained in the evenings,

As I left a lot at your mercy,

I had read some lessons in a hurry.

The only time we never spoke was,

When summers were in bloom,

The heat soaking everything dry,

Maybe even those emotions up,

That is why I have never cried.

I have written some stories,

Few fables after we last met,

A tale for every season I guess,

Like the crust you left from bread,

Even as long clumsy miles lay ahead.

I have forgotten quite some details,

But the seasons keep coming back,

Their cycle reminds me of the past,

Even as I look for those pent-up tears,

And I start missing the winters.

They make fun of those singular prayers,

The covert wishes for some answers, 

Revealing their deep hidden bigotry,

The early judgments and miscalculations.

They hear of miracles and rainbows,

And some canvasses that remain colourless,

Wilful representations, fabrications to their ears,

Their probing eyes given no time to testify.

They ask for forgiveness, kneeling down,

But no love for Roxannes’ even on a Sunday,

Half melted candles flickering in absolution,

The empty chairs have no chance to surmise. 

So, I keep looking back at the old photographs,

The ones where the stories still made sense, 

The ones where there is no dearth of wishbones,

And the smiles make up for every thing.

In some, I see myself, too young for my own sake,

I used to have this penchant for petrol fumes,

Sometimes for kerosene and the good old petrichor,

The rainy days had special significance.

I remember wearing wrist watches all the time,

And never keeping the collar button unbuttoned,

The love for sweaters, the dislike for blazers,

The winters always brought along warmth.

So, we will meet some day, when you are old,

We will click a picture and reminisce about the past,

A bit of homesickness for those forever lost places,

The ones left somehow kept alive in photographs.