Sherin

ON A SUNNY DAY…….
He came……. and handed over to me…..
A wet handkerchief…

Faded flowers….
Torn edges…..
An impression of the first alphabet….
Of a name familiar than my thousand nightmares…..

I wish I could cry……

RASHOMON….
The poem on screen….. (he says)…..
Of the rains, untouched…..
And the monsoons, ‘unchased’………

But all that I am left with….
Is an umbrella………
As old as his weirdest phobia…
Striped, twisted and forsaken…..

I wish I could laugh at him…..

IN THE SPRINGS….
He comes closer…..
Fast, like the shooting stars…..
Green, like the water hemlocks….

I hear him whispering….
Get me…..but……
“Bend like a bow….”
“Bloom like a flower…..”

I wish I could tell him….he is wrong….

IN WINTERS…..
He never made his occurrence felt…..
I wish I could own a sweater……
Before the snow…
Before the frost……