A lady as sandhya
She had often exclaimed that I was like the night
A candle light cannot claim to explore whom,
A riddle, or perhaps a crossword without a guide.
She tried to fill me
sometimes the empty lanes across me
and sometimes those deserted downward directions.
She either tried to make a way
or find an escape.
She did not knew that
each mistake of her ink
was leaving a scar on my empty belonging.
The trembling of a night in pain
has a treaty with the crust of the earth
of that of secrecy...
She did not knew that the wounded
words were setting a pyre.
My love was instead looking for life
in little spaces like her finger tips
and the sunset on her forehead.
Slowly I began to love this web of her
roaming vocabulary, definition-less.
From whom the moon borrows the beauty of sadness.
A lady who spoke so soft
and smelled like an evening flower of my village.