By Yashodhara Vijayan
Don't roll the carpet, not yet,
For underneath are many things swept.
Beside dust and dirt on the floor so cold
Will tumble out stories hitherto untold.
Some childish hopes, some grown-up fears,
Some unspoken words, few unshed tears.
Old grudges lying in the corner far away,
Long since forgotten—so there let them stay.
The harsh truths are buried somewhere in the middle;
Tread softly around them, don't trundle.
Hurt and remorse are bundled and thrown
In another corner and covered with stone.
Along with these,
Longing for peace and happiness around,
Traces of my real self may also be found—
Self that I so carefully hide
From the world and near ones all alike.
So don't roll the carpet, not today.
Roll it up when I am gone away.
Forever.