By Saranyan BV
The sound of raindrops Made sweeter through night By the tin shade outside my window, The chill in the air has stories of The days we were lost in the woods, In the wattle forest fighting for cover Watching lake-waves in subtle throes. Dreams come like flush of meadows I roll back and watch shadows and lights Bouncing in equal proportions Through maple leaf drapes. In the dark, curtains have no colours. The green carpet tells of the spilled drops of tea, Fallen crumbs of the vanilla cake and more, Mere illusions of having been too long In that lonesome lodge. Dreams come with crows in rainbow feathers, Petite beaks, not longer than what eyes could see, Heads crested with crowns dipped in chrysanthemum pollen; The pillow reeks of the perfume Of the woman who slept last, or of her jasmine. I roll again as if to end the dream. Dreams have a way of haunting Like Gods who have limited shelf life Gods who rise and die with us.
Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.
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