By Veeresh Sai
PART-0: SILENCE
I place the red carnations on your chest,
still asleep, my robin.
My tears rest on the edge of your eyes—
my ocean in your night sky.
Dare I send you to fetch his smile?
Is it courage or naivety? —
to search beneath the Red Sea,
Sinking deep for answers.
For the blood fell silent at the violence of your hand,
blooming another scar, now yearning for your branch.
I hold on until the sky turns grey,
coloring my thoughts—Is it love? Is it pain?
The silent blood still searching,
I ask you, Robin, to whisper,
lend me courage to face the truth.
Are the leaves warm enough to cover him?
O Robin I write this letter—
to you, to him, to the God you whispered.
A confession, a regret.
Blood spills over my hands—
the red carnation never bloomed, poured.
O Robin, scarred by the Sunʼs last petal, you rise,
Your grey wings layered in feathers of sorrow.
your heart deepens, melting snow into red crystals—
is it the mark of my blood or his will to live?
Is it proof of our love, the life I give?
On a cold winter night, you plunge forward,
the edges of your wings—swords slicing the wind.
In those invisible steps you leap,
you crawl, you fly, to fill his heart.
You carry the winter with you— our love frozen in tides.
All the courage you poured— was it worth witnessing my ache?
Is this an endless sea of sorrow, an ocean of grief?
or a tear for frozen love, melted at the sigh of relief?
My heart—an open canvas— I spilled the blank silence all over.
The river rages in thirst, craving your sky to shelter my soul.
The leaves, once soft, now pierce my skin, longing for an embrace, to belong.
As my conscience creeps in, I wonder— will you finally wake?
Can my dry, red lips scare the moon away?
Can your cold hand smear the sky with my blood to bring you back?
Are my wounds not enough for you?
Are you bored of my body—
Its bruises, its weight?
was it never good enough to lay your hands on?
Can the sky mirror the Red Sea?
Or is it an illusion—
The warmth of the sun I once felt in your touch?
Your hand. Your hit?
PART-1: A LETTER TO MALICE
An identity—I scream.
Reality, a soft-spoken thorn, stings less to recall
than the poisoned rose I was gifted.
A surreal moment—a momentary blur, snapping me back.
A letter meant to be opened, yet I sealed myself inside,
praying to the god who locked the gate.
Are thorns the key to enter?
Or is it my blood that flows under,
a silent offering at your feet?
An unbalanced hit—felt the recoil—
jolted awake from a nightmare.
My consciousness, ever so gracefully dragged back.
pain engulfs my skin—
a sudden thunder, followed by silent rain.
If blood is the silent rain,
are my tears an endless scream?
I beg time to rush its course—
to hush the scars quickly,
even if the storm is vicious.
I gather my clarity, wondering
Will the sun be warm again after the clouds?
I see your hesitation—burning up,
a blue flame ready to engulf another blanket.
Another strike from your hand—along with my neurons.
One after another—waking my consciousness each time,
only to reveal the ocean of unconsciousness beneath.
The process now—no longer a process, but a burden.
A burden balanced so perfectly by reality,
that even the thought of writing it
breaks the barricades I built for our love until now.
O robin, carry this one letter.
May his soul read it when he wakes,
or is it a burden too?
Do my words weigh you down each time they whisper?
Or do they cover you like a leaf, the way you do to the bodies?
Do they blanket his soul,
like the proof I must carry through my life?
Or can you not bear the witness—
let alone the striking sound of his hit?
Is this letter a mark on our red chest,
or a color for our home,
where our souls may finally rest?
I open the letter—against the sun, against the wind.
His motionless body stares beneath the blanket of his eyes.
I gather my thoughts, my answers.
I begin to read.
To Malice,
The red carnations I got you—
the first time we met.
When I kissed you,
each petal bloomed a rose in my heart.
O robin, your glowing red heart I wore,
every time we met.
I whispered wishes every time he bled.
The thorns pricked my heart—
the first time I felt it.
O robin, I confess—my body has two souls.
One, I let him borrow for love.
One for the ember of his hand—
that burned my skin.
They both stare from my hollow body.
One in the abyss, the other in the Red Sea.
O robin, the blood you carry of the god—
did it stain sin when I chose to stay?
You asked me to search for her,
said “She” would fix me.
But that ‘Sʼ slipped
when his lips touched mine.
The resistance—pierced by his force—
filled my body with answers.
Each pore that questioned my mind,
met with his touch, like a blanket.
O robin, is this the price I pay for my sin?
The leaves you covered—
is it the soul I assume?
Or are all the times he hit me
just decorations for me to wear?
I placed the red carnation at your heart.
It dissolves with time,
as the cycles of the sun repeat.
The leaves began piercing the tree, blooming with your death.
O robin, please hold his funeral,
and I will attend.
My life—the shrine that will witness the death.
My body—to be freed when I mourn.
My soul—dying at the consciousness of time,
every second.
In the heaviness of air,
your words hang on my breath.
I grasp for the light seeping from your eyes.
I pray to the god you comforted—
let us live.
“Itʼs the bloodˮ, you replied.
In the ocean of flames, it withered.
The petals of your soft skin—
I gasped for your breath,
drenched in the soothing sun.
In the fallen leaves,
dare I stop the robin?
Our identity, beheld in your eyes,
before your eyelids closed.
A shroud of rust unfurling over us.
A funeral I held.
My home.
My new identity.
PART-2: THE LAST FLIGHT
TO ROBIN:
Let me take your voice,
I want to see the soul, its eyes.
Did I deserve it?
My bruised hand, begging in desperation like fallen branches,
I let my wounds bloom into spring, into summer,
I burn, is it my punishment for a sin?
The God himself in front of me,
Is it a sin or a punishment or both?
His body, now covered in leaves,
Every time I felt his hit,
My mind assured, you will be okay,
One last time,
To feel his motionless hand.
BY ROBIN:
The leaves I cover the body with,
It echoes another, that of a sea and an ocean.
I fear not to let it wither
Into question, into answer,
I ponder, is my red heart red at all?
Did the sun want me to carry it? Or let me cherish it's ashes?
I whispered to him once more, to attend the funeral,
The true love blinded by him,
A coffin over the masks of desperation.
I question, is it love? Is it sorrow?
Will you let me take him,
Before I feather my thoughts away along with
the letter,
Maybe the answer to the question I never asked.
[PART-2 can be read in two ways: “To Robin” and “By Robin.” Additionally, an alternate reading emerges by reading one line from “To Robin,” then one from “By Robin,” and continuing in that pattern.]