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The Umbrella Seller

By Arpan Naithani 

She sat by her stall, 
dutifully, 
for it was time. 
When the sadness touched
the stratosphere, 
and made the clouds precipitate, 
it rained.
She sold the umpteenth umbrella
unconditionally,
to the melancholy man, 
for it was time. 
It was some kind of blue, 
a bit jaded, 
faded, 
and then rain will leave it
with patches of a weary white. 
The way everyone feels
perhaps
internally, 
about the eternal notion
of demand and supply. 
Her heedless heart, 
didn't mind getting wet. 
The water made the wounds
disappear,
externally. 
But on the nights
it didn't rain, 
the stall was wrapped in silence. 
And she bled words
which wilted by the morning, 
into what they called poetry. 
One day, 
it rained indefinitely, 
but no one came,
and her heart bled
into bouquets
of unwritten verses,
till there was nothing left, 
and she finally slept
soundly. 
The coroner said
She died of natural causes.

2 comments

  • Thanks a lot Meghna for the warm comment. Made my day. Keep writing. :)

    Arpan Naithani
  • I’ve always thought that you are a very talented poet, Arpan. You have the ability to give amazing depth and intensity to seemingly commonplace observations. That is quite a gift. Congratulations :)

    Meghna Nair

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