Was it the way the wind called your name; in whispers,
Soft and soothing,
Serenading you with rhythms you loved to hear?
Or was it the ancestral beats resonating from history;
Tales of brave men who fought wars with their words
When swords betrayed our motherland.
You sit beside still waters hoping for the tide to come;
You remember that moon does not come out at noon
And God is somewhere within the partings of your lips.
There’s something in the water,
Creating bubbles; that catches your fancy.
You stand to see whose voice troubles the waters;
You see the reflections of a winged bard upon the waters;
You remember the cashew tree behind the house;
Its nuts which fall in and out of season;
The season you fell in and tried to find a way out.
You count as they fall.
Each tear drops on your reflection
Causing memories to fade
As you grow pale,
Your breath, still;
And God, escaping the parting of your lips.