Under the Akasha Mallige

By Nayanathara S

The Akasha Mallige looks like an aged emperor bereft of his crown;
The last of the flowers have become one with the earth.
My eyes scan the skies for your outstretched hands —
I wish I could give you these fallen stars,
For they carry the subtle scent of our halcyon days.

This is the heady scent of childhood —
The scent of a girl with dreamy eyes,
The scent of the balmy morning breeze,
The scent of a torn school bag and a sun-kissed playground…

This is the scent of young love —
The scent of stolen kisses,
The scent of two bodies lost in the labyrinths of pleasure...

My fingers haphazardly trace your shape on the flower-strewn canvas;
I wish I could sketch the chiseled contours of your face once more…
This fine thousand-petalled brush carries the colours of our love —
Sometimes stark white, at times coal black, but more often those of
A vermilion sunset we wanted to watch together, but never could.