In this interlace Between the branches Of a hundred deserted trees Where the light chose To shine into Their deep marsh Underbelly of unknown. Here life has arrived again Into another year, Into her, As she learnt to Melt into time And smile from Within her heart- The warmth for her winter. At this oddity called Time.
A reason for why you were born on the day you were born.
A reason for the home or street that brings you up.
A reason for your existence.
One for the way you are.
And the unavoidable one for how your life turns out to be.
Every emotion, every thought, every act, every word- spoken or not, is accounted for with a reason not always known to the limited consciousness of our human minds.
Like all these rivulets, we are pooled into nothing but the sea of humanity.
And then all these reasons, at an uncalled vertex of moment, will flood into your awareness of making any sense at all with vague words for explanation.
Image and poem copyright Vibina Narayan (IG: @soulofscheherazade)
In the quiet hours of lassitude, between the waking and rising hours of dawn, the soul of this forest yearns to be clasped in the crush of your old wide palms, a visceral map of all the worlds you have touched and healed.
Skin at every arousable tip stretched tight upon these mountains and hillocks pine for the wetness oozing from the music only your parted hungry lips can sing.
The alluring darkness of her secret alcoves and explored caves awaits to be played upon by your nimble, long, calloused fingers that have caressed the softness of many a lovers’ lips.
The feet of her earth aches to be entwined with your downtrodden ones, to infuse your roots with the vigour only her soil could give, even if you have to trample upon her,
again and again.
And somewhere between the beginning, the middle and the end of her terrain, when you have trespassed all her rocks and marsh and pits and lakes, she lies wide open and awake, to have all of yours in her, in union and unison until eternity.
Letting the glaciers of all your unshed tears, hitherto, melt into the river that would make her deltas fertile, as she gives you life, while you sob into the wake of her earthy bosom, the ravine pit of her forbearing arms, the undying throes of your passion and life.