The Circle of Love

What had been a six foot frame
Was bent over a blue-black cane.
Metal strangled by wrinkled fingers.
The other hand securely held tiny fingers!
Old, gray eyes met bright, honey-coloured ones
Turned alive, as they were once.
But, ‘Nothing lasts forever,’ said the broken mast.
The ship of joy was sinking. Sinking fast.


Long, graceful fingers snapped the golden thread.
A perfect murder. No evidence; not a shred!
She smiled to herself, having thrown apart
Two souls who could never be apart.
From her rocking chair, Time blew out the warm fire.
And left to warm her hands over the blazing pyre!


Years after, he lay thinking of those joyful days
With chest constricted; Helpless under those blinding rays,
Yearning to travel into the past, in Time’s carriage-
To change history; to rip from her story, a page!
To feel his hands in those hands again;
To feel that love yet again.
Little hands on his chest brought him back.
Back to the present, where he could feel their lack.
He saw his son run to his father.
Grandson to grandfather.

- Arya

Arya

A poet - A bookworm, definitely, a bookworm - A photographer - A simple person who loves music, making craft-y things - haunted by nightmares starring stairs without railings, spiders, snakes.

India