Sword in pen

The sky is a big smoker every other they he smokes the clouds And I watch the silhouettes of the stories that are wandering in the massive blue Sometimes, these stories sneak into earth as rain But all we hear is music of the stones and the droplets. Maybe, the sky is not a smoker But a writer with blue ink spilled on him. P. S. Every song has got a story concealed in it.

As I recreated the shadows of the cupboard near the window I heard the rhythm of the rain, Felt the sciamachy of the winds. How the sun peeped through the holes Casting its net on the non-living souls. The lacuna of my life which was stranded in that cupboard Screamed to me. To be touched, loved and restored . I lifted a book And stared at its cover Like a long, forgotten lover Caressed the whelve in it I reminisced its smell And it felt like I breathed For the first time in years. The sticky pages were conceiving tears, The dust at its corners emigrated to my fingers, to which they once belonged. The smile came back that I had left on page two hundred forty seven when finally the war was over As I redestroyed the shadows Of the cupboard near the window I heard the rhythm of the rain And I glanced at the dust on my finger, that will now remain There, even if I'm washed off By this rain. -Chanchal Bag la