Hiraeth

I'm tired and restless
I want to sleep again,
And feel what it felt when I nestled against your chest
and tied myself to you.
I want the final address
But home is broken and buried in different cities
And there is no way I can get the pieces back together.
The roads are tangling themselves
The lights are dimming and flickering
And I'm cold and ghastly.
I want to dig my home out and fix the skyline
Before I dig my own grave
And before it's actually the time to move on
I want to sleep again.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I used to believe that there's nothing as jarring as the noise of a smothered weep or the silence that follows it

Image
 Perhaps the silence scattered in our minds, stuffed in our stories, layering our reality,  sneakily growing on the pretext for peace is lost on us.  It remains forgotten until we're arrested by it. Sometimes, in the happiest, warmest, truest moments,  in the company of those we love dearly It transforms into an unspeakable grief. Now, this is why I stress on love: It acquaints us with the truths we thought we'd never get to know but have known all the while. That one fine evening when my silence arrested me, It was your tenderness that made me utter- "I should've said it long ago, but I didn't know what to say." The grief didn't remain unspeakable, after all. I held your hand.
Read more

Methods

Image
 To love is to become the other  So when nothing remains in this world the quiet of this sacrifice floats in the air Like the silence of a lost one does Years later they're gone. So years after you've been lost  And so has everything in the world And nothing remains  The void will remember you for bending it By becoming its own In silence, in love.
Read more

Pious violence

Image
 Our animosity towards God is reflected in every distressing possession we have sacralized. every piece of land we split in two every door we latched to keep someone every unmindful attempt of being. Our misgivings and that cynical terror, each one, each time is a violent attempt  to ravage his idea. His effortless tyranny we say  is a way to speak to us,  As if he's begging us to say his grace, Rub our hands into rivers, till they melt Beat our backs, till they break Sing songs till our parched throats get drenched in blood. His barbaric ways- tests of time, we think are his favourite methods of communication. With our  coward beating hearts,  severe reluctance to take a chance, We refuse to even touch  that it might just all be made up. Our cracked understanding of concepts, Disgust for a shared bite, uninterrupted convenience and piercing silences, All dance upon the rubble of his home While we light up a candle, ring some bells and join our hands f...
Read more