By Aaliyah Bindra
We were shown the hills, not the mountains
Picnics by the unperturbed rivers, not the roaring, unscrupulous seas
Saw the silent rain, the thundering drops of red-concealed
Shown the hands of fathers holding our mums
Surmised, souls of lovers no one could dissever
Not the hands men raised on women, how their words they spread like injected venom
When time stopped, worlds changed, years in transit from one to another
New winters surfaced but with a haze, fog cast upon known reality as all turned to strangers
Spring arose, as did the flowers
and trees covering aplenty
making all anomalous, particularly oneself
Summer evaporated all of we, as Raging autumn winds blew by
whispers of doubt and perturbation
Strokes of all colours on this great ‘life canvas’ of ambivalence
But today, as we look back
at the small, picturesque hills
the tranquil rivers
the misty rain
glimpse … the beauty in the warmth of lovers
As we remember the mighty mountains,
the belting seas,
the roaring rain,
the newfound realities,
the path with many ways...
As we recall
Every stroke of paint,
Every colour of ink,
Whether black or white
Green or Gray
that painted us,
with that forevermore imperfect, perfect consistency in this perfect, imperfect world
and made us who we are today
All that comes to light is everything but…
Every broken but pivotal stone embedded on the path to now
one that went in all directions
but from it, we never strayed
It made us who we are today
It made us who we are today…