August '21

This distance-
My sorrow, its gift
Dampens my soul's soil
Smelling of nostalgia.

Small consolation, poetry
For the night it was born in
Flowers wither by the day
Nectar comes slow and grudging.

This old wound, my estranged lover
Bleeds on monsoon afternoons
Calling from a number I learned to forget,
Sings drunkenly of our lost passion.

To be free
Is to be as a bee,
A bird or a tree-
Along imagined roads to grow and fly,
Reaching gently to touch the sky.