(Quite literally, a longing for far-off places.)

Last night,
The Boy with the Summer Caramel and Winter Chocolate eyes,
Told me, to set my second clock up at a difference of one more hour, because winter – and hence daylight saving time-
Jad crept into the Fairytale German Town, the one which will soon transform into Narnia with each snow.

The entire night-
I spent thinking,
Of Winters I never got to know
Of Monsoons that went by too fast,
And one whole night-
I thought of Forgotten Cemetaries
With the buried Sciencemen and Artists side by side
Of the sacred groves by the Oak and Willow trees,

But above all-
Above all, last night- I thought,
Of how, with The Boy moving to different shores in a fortnight-
I will never, never again get the chance,
To set this clock back by an hour.
In my hourglass – I will be the White Witch
That brought to this, My Narnia – a century long winter.

But slowly, slowly that same winter,
Crept in freezing my lungs, and I swear –
This morning, in this City of The Blazing Sun –
When I pulled up my knees to my chest,
And let out with some tears one aberrant sigh-
I felt the chill of the winter,
The pull of the approaching December,
fleeting by.

A 13, or perhaps 14- year old me,
Had read in a book that
” December people are temporary. “
Half my life went by wondering
if my effervescent nature will bring pestilence,
and sadness to the ones in my life.

But today – I realised,
December people are only temporary when you chain them
When you give them the wrong material things,
And expect them to grow Roots.

Give us December people,
A city where history lives on every door,
Give us a city with Solar Systems on its Cobblestone Pathways,
Give us a one-room apartment that has known more love-
More love than entire mansions can hold –
And you’ll find us – the Temporary People,
Weeping over cities, that we have
Hardly even lived in at all.

Of Sulphur winged Fireflies

You tell me, that it’s the Festival of Lights
Of Hopes, dreams & of Sulphur-winged Fireflies
Glittering transiently in the sky.

I want to believe you, I do.

But my battlefield of a body
Constantly haunted, by past tragedies
Looks at the orange sky, like Sauron’s Evil Eye,
And shudders, alone, at each thundering sound-

I only hear Guy Fawkes, this ain’t no Diwali.
This is Revolution. This is Retribution.
And it smells of Gunpowder, of Treason, and Plot.

The Sky colours up, with blood memories
Sparkles with wounds of distant explosions,
The City Cacophony, reminiscent of bygone wars.

Less Vision, More Blinding

Less Poetry, More PTSD.