#indian poetry

Days have passed, so have months.

At some point, during that time, my mind has been a blank piece of sheet, and my thoughts flowing like the ink of a broken pen.

I, and many here and there - probably, felt lost and lonely.

But everything is ephemeral, even these temporary feelings, that keep going and knocking back on my door, sometimes.

Sometimes, coming inside like a storm we try to protect ourselves from,

sometimes we decide to let them in, even welcoming with a smile, curious to learn more.

Some people call it growth, some healing, or just life.

Isn’t that life just a perpetual stream of changes and adaptations, to circumstances, people, and ourselves anyway.

Self portrait in Mumbai. May 2020

I will meet you there,

When the birds won’t be encaged anymore,

When the sun will go down,

At the dusk.

Spring is here. Shall we bloom?

It feels very heavy here, you know.

These tears don’t want to come out,

And I have no where to cry.

The Butterfly by Arun Kolkatkar

There is no story behind it.

It is split like a second.

It hinges around itself.

It has no future.

It is pinned down to no past.

It’s a pun on the present.

It’s a little yellow butterfly.

It has taken these wretched hills under its wings.

Just a pinch of yellow,

it opens before it closes

and closes before it o

where is it