By Sonali Bawa
A songstress, I
sit by a river flowing
by clearing of crocuses
come alive, under
the careful ministrations
of a hundred bees,
engorging themselves
on lilac daydreams,
a whole world awash
with sweet murmurings.
Unable to focus, my eyes
flit fitfully
from fluttering wings
to stems, swaying
crocuses caressed
by the gentle breeze.
If I could, would I
spend my whole life
here, in blissful forgetfulness?
A gilded cage,
called existence,
one, of my own making,
where only in moments
such as these
am I truly free.
She is out there
I am certain,
a woman unburdened,
but alas, she is not me.
Yet, hope is what rests
in my cavernous soul
echoing,
a response to a call
that one day
my words will flee
out of the pages
of my private reverie
into print , into the hands
of a soul, kindred,
when, I am nothing but
a feeling fleeting,
fading remnants of ash
upon her tongue,
my body reduced
to embers and bones,
the words in her mind
reflecting my own.