Book by Manasi

A rhythm of art has never been so
varied;
as wide and lively
as your ecstatic joy riddled with panging grief.
Your wars, your white flags and your weddings will mark
Windows of words – a million of them pouring in to my world
and focusing to make one blinding ray in my mind.

I see your persona in the mirror sometimes,
come up suddenly behind me – hypothetical and in reality.
I see your exact personality as I imagine it to be,
My interpretation of a painting etched in mind
so vividly.
I can never turn around though,
because to look at you directly is
to violate the laws of our
separate and intertwined worlds.

As I sit here on my mahogany table,
I’ll look out of the transparent glass box I’m sitting in.
A spinning chair and I surrounded by more than five dimensions –
you defy the undefiable borders of science.
I’ll comply to your regulations and look out of my box to see the
world in terms of a child, adult, animal.
You’ll beckon and I’ll step out of my glass box
into war-torn grounds, parallel universes, and the morning dew of spring.

When Uncle Joe dug your grave there were a few of us
who smelt your distinct
papyrus texture, now infused with the bloodshed of
propoganda and insecurity.
There were a few of us who shook mankind
to find the remains of your unearthly cremation,
who dug the grave and gathered the ashes to
resurrect the remnants of you, and your relatives’ massacre.

You’ve survived our past, but I’m desperately hanging on the branches of your present.
You’ve survived our past, and I’m trying to
turn, turn, turn your pages but they whirlwind around me till utter destruction
because I saved you in the past, and I feel that my obligatory post
as your keeper has been fulfilled.
I wince with the pain of a passionate surfer choosing to drown in her own waves.
For now, the cell phone on my mahogany table will give an anticipated ting.
Not anticipated actually, the obligatory one for every seven minutes.
In my chromium-plated lifestyle I’ve forgotten to look back,
and instead meander into the tributaries and distributaries
of the river in the forgotten, shameful land you once described.

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