READ OUR STORIES |
READ OUR STORIES |
To Play In the Snow
I wore my blue button down
layered with a white sweater
Yet the cold glued over me
like the ghost of an old lover
holding the woollen armour
Rush Hour
There's no cadence
in morning rush hours—
as anger burst like atomic bombs
and words splattered
like spilt tea on a white sheet;
A Mother's Lament: Sorrow's Enduring Embers
What of the child,
so pure and young,
the family's breadwinner,
whose old mother, ever vigilant
listens for his return.
The Maniac Called Drugs
This cruel maniac has crept in our town,
Wreaking havoc from the corners of our street
To the utmost glorious sanatorium of our time;
Young leaves littered our street on borrowed time,
As they sniffed plume of sacrilege powdery mildew.
Who will be vigilant to console the Inconsolable?
As precious soul shimmers in this crazy hallucination—
Our homes have become a mournful dwelling sanctuary.
Where Love Tastes Like Home
The evening air is quiet,
a silence that is warm, not empty.
I sit beside Papa,
the glow of the TV flickering across his face—
an old Bollywood movie, familiar, soft.
We do not talk much,
but we do not need to.
Some silences are not hollow;
they settle, like an old song—
comforting, known.
The Memory Box
When we were little, my sister and I
had a small, cardboard box
filled with stickers.
Treasure chest, we would call it.
Of glittering stars and tiny flowers,
cartoon faces grinning up at us.