By Deeya Bhattacharya
The Broken Nest
I speak of an empty nest
whose inmates, have long-forgotten their way
leaving behind, a trail of memories
that fills the cacophony.
The architect was fastidious, it seems
weaving affection with diligence
forgetting that, impermanence was
the only reality.
This home, imperfect enough
to mend ,and resurrect
the stars, who threw down their spears
in silence, weeping in solitude
gathered blasphemy on its
discreet walls.
For days together ,a futile search
yielded a legacy beyond compromise.
A ghastly silence, settled like thick dust on the faint murmuring leaves
of a tree nearby, and in this hollow
uncanny night nothing stirred, save
a pair of eyes which burnt like a
lit pyre .