Sunday, November 25, 2012

No one rings the bell



No one rings the bell
At the sad house.
No kids to resonate
Within the broken panes
And desolate shards.
The green path remains , myopic
and listening as far the horizonal walls.
Vibrant blushes of mistletoe
Hug it hard ; none to kiss them
None to burn it and smoke ;
Though the scent of burnt Bibles
linger.
The temple bells do not reach here
The tall, disappointed mango trees
Eat them up.
As are the deep calls of azan`,
Absorbed by the hungry moss.
The only visitors come, wearing black,
Holding on tight to their handfuls of earth
Later, they slither away into rainbow colours
And far ; never to return, followed by the
tittering wind and the smirking sun.
Only the huntsman, searching for tombs ;
Him, with a rose at his arrow tip
Sees the river beyond,silent and waiting
Holding melting Stories, and rain murmurs inside
Seas, her breath that rises in girlish curls.
And
A tiny salmon,
Struggling against her frozen sheets.
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