By Girish Saraf Bendke
In depths where silent storms reside,
A brine-born bead begins its glide—
A crystal forged from sorrow’s breath,
A liquid sigh, defying death.
It swells, a world in miniature,
A globe of grief, both faint and pure;
The eye’s own sky, now overcast,
Holds oceans in a vault of glass.
It quivers, poised on Reason’s ledge,
A fragile bridge ‘twixt heart and edge;
Like Saturn’s ring, it clings, it gleams,
A prism stitching fractured dreams.
Then—plunges! Down the cheek’s curved slope,
A comet trailing trails of hope;
A rebel river, warm and wild,
It carves a path for truths exiled.
Does it lament what lips won’t name?
Or baptize wounds too raw to claim?
Each salt-streak script, a poet’s verse,
A language bones can’t cage or curse.
It falls not as defeat’s weak slave,
But as a knight who rides the wave—
To crash upon the shore of skin,
Where air will claim where it’s been.
Now dried, a phantom on the floor,
A diamond shed by feeling’s core;
Yet in its wake, the soul feels light—
A star released to pierce the night.
So let it flow, this liquid lore,
The heart’s own tide, the spirit’s roar:
One tear, a cosmos—brief, entire—
A monsoon housed in quicksilver.