By Purba Pande
Some are playing with my laurels,
Some are playing with my faith.
And I don't understand it till the day,
If I have never broken anyone's heart,
Then why for every case, mine is chosen to break?
So many altars I had decorated with flowers.
But they were all the same ,smashing everything before leaving the place.
As in my history,
The more I wanted love, the more I got bruised.
With each time which have become more engraved.
I have people in my life I'm indebted to, who were the saviours someday.
But now they want back the price of their deed by killing me anyway.
And I've made the mistake of showing my bleeding soul to them,
Cause I didn't realise the blood on their knife was mine always.
My house is made out of broken bricks,
Frail enough to tolerate all the storms of conspiracies.
In trying to protect it from being fallen,
I've never been able to turn it into a home.
Every moment feels like an exile here.
All I want is to run away to somewhere no one knows.
There is something in the night that reminds me of the sorrows,
which during the day I pretended to believe that I've forgotten.
And so I try to share all the silent pain through tears to a star that stays light years away.
Some pray for my misery, what if I say I know their names too well?
Have vowed the whole life to be against me, just to see me being defeated by them.
The smell of air after the rain always makes me go back in time.
The wreath of clouds around my place reminds me of the fallacy of mine,
How I imagined that I'm going to write the victory in my name this time.
And all of my futile battles which once I had fought to win,
Have got a place in the golden pages of their victorious biography.
I've only got their thrown arrows, incised with each and every name.
Because how can someone miss any possible target,
When the alcoves of my heart were once bestowed on them?
A bunch of questions that I collected but never got the answers to,
Did I sacrifice everything, all I knew that I had, into the sacred fire
Just because at the end everything will turn into ashes before my eyes?
Why does all the time, at the end, everything turn into ashes?
That makes me feel like a haunted curse for some of my unknown age-old offences.
Why Lord, why every single thing I want turns into something that's not meant for me?
Myriad of teardrops that I turned into prayers, but have lost in hoping for something magic.
Years of hardships,
Sharpened the strongest weapons that I made out of my bones.
But they became useless on the battlefield, when I needed the most .
Why Lord, why life is so unfair to me?
Please tell me my offence and kill me, do it all at once,
Instead of killing my soul in hundreds of way.
It would be more peaceful believe me.
Cause I'm tired of pretending that everything happens for a reason.
I'm not sure if I really don't feel the pain anymore,
Or I've just got used to lying on the thorns.
It has now faded into a new kind of color, that matches with my rusty fate.
Only I know how I buried the broken wishes with tears in the diary pages.
And I don't have any idea what I'm writing for the time being.
Everything seems to be turning into rhetorical melancholy.