Flowers behind the wall

Here is the blue sky,

That stretches over the limits of my eye,

Falling over to the other side,

Pouring colour into my mind;

On every blade of grass,

Dripping from the petals of every blossom,

Down to the earth, hidden beneath the verdure,

Where a hungry soil lies awake,

Soaking in the blood of life,

Turning deep red,

And deepening…

Here is the raindrop,

Eager to please,

Frantic and fragile,

Plunging to the seeds,

Making puddles in my mind,

Bringing the under-earth to life,

Sprouting with ease,

Beneath a fresh cold river;

That is washing everything away,

Making rocks with the light,

And emerging…

Even though I can’t see,

Anything beyond me,

Except this cold and lonely wall,

On which I will cast my dream,

All but a delusion to be,

In it you will find,

A poem written in images,

Changing to the sound of the wind,

And swaying…

Here is the Sun,

The one I share with the other side,

Blinded not by its brilliance,

But by its shadow, partially;

This separation –

We call it the facts of existence,

It can’t be breached, it can’t be broken,

My hope, becomes the eventual;

All but a bed of flowers,

With youngling blooms,

Reaching for the vines,

From behind the wall, and over the top,

Slowly building the tangled grove,

Where nestles my buoyant sanguineness,

Singular, and thriving…

Siddharth Pathak | 12th October 2014

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