Insomnia

The silhouette moves in the hide and seek of the light and darkness. The sounds become clearer. The water of the tap. The whirling of the fan. The clinking of the windchime. Perfect rhythms, never missing a beat, they make music. I see reflections of my thoughts on pen and paper. I realize and reawaken my soul. I count my mistakes. And blessings. Often I cry over things. Big and small. People. Who left and who didn't. Rarely, I think of reality. Days are for reality. For counting gains and loses. Facing harsh truths. Nights are for dreamers. Dreams you see in deep sleep or with open eyes. Visualizations of the vivid imagination come alive in the darkness. Nights are for losing oneself to ones soul. Hear it speak to you in languages only you understand. Of the universe inside you. Slowly the darkness gives way to light as the stars disappear one by one into an illusion. Even the sky pretends to be a blue facade to hide it's true self in the morning. Now I try to sleep. When the world around me is awake and abuzz.

© Suranya

The Spirit of Life

 I walk down the jolly road 

Basking in the Christmas glow, 

Families decorating trees, 

Fairy lights and all things pretty. 

I witness them make merry, 

Decorating homes with reindeer 

Lucky are they to have one, I swear. 

Homeless in an alien land 

I find myself alone again. 

No festivities for the beggars 

The crowd only mean more alms and onlookers.

I shrugged almost in a sarcastic smile, 

"Are you only for the rich, Almighty Divine?"

Suddenly, as the sun still shone bright 

A shower of rain came pouring down, 

While the sky looked bright white. 

People ran to find shelters and cars 

I stood in awe, looking up. 

Soaking wet in the winter rain, 

I noticed the droplets hitting my face. 

There they were, tiny drops 

Shining in the rays, in bright colours. 

Smiling, I folded my hands in thanks, 

He had given me my own colourful lanterns.

~ Suranya

The Mountains Called

 Tall and proud, reaching for the sky, 

Alone and unique, the Mountain stood, 

Lofting over the clouds. 

The River down in the valley, 

Fell in love with him.

But rainfed and non-perennial 

She could see him only from afar.

He was rugged, lifeless and cold. 

Ignorant of the river, 

So she turned bold. 

She found it hard 

To climb up his steep sides. 

But to reach him was her aim, 

The River tried again and again. 

So she turned herself into rain, 

Drop by drop, she reached his terrain 

Turning herself into snow 

For his majestic peaks.

She decided to entwine herself, 

Adding life to his greatness. 

So she turned into a stream 

And soaked him in her love. 

The trees grew thick, 

On the stone cold rocks, 

The Mountain had life, 

A gift from the River.

Grateful in turn, year after year 

He stopped the clouds 

From taking her away. 

And every time he stopped them, 

They rained her love on him, 

Turning her once again into glaciers 

That made him a source of life.

~ Suranya

A Writer's Dream

Some day when my body perishes, my soul is set free and my identify is long forgotten someone may accidentally chance upon my note book. They may perhaps be interested in the torn pages, smudged ink or the handwriting and start deciphering the words. Each page will unveil secrets. Of my heart and mind. Of people and places I don't talk of anymore. Of dreams and hopes lost. Of my idea of life, religion and love. With each line, feelings will be explored. Perhaps judged. Based on the time and situation of the reader, they will easily judge me being right or wrong with my decisions and actions. Or perhaps they will smile at my hope with a lingering feeling of nostalgia about someone else they knew or know. Perhaps they will talk of me with others. Or not. Perhaps they will decide to throw away the notebook as waste. Perhaps it will end up somewhere destroyed and forgotten. When the darkness will descend upon earth after sunset and the stars will appear, they will perhaps realize in the moment, remembering my words, that my soul lives in that torn book of ink, words and emotions. They will perhaps decide against throwing it away and keep it somewhere safe. And I will live on through my words. For that is what every writer dreams of.

© Suranya

Welcome Winter

 The last leaf the tree holds on to 

The last sign of dear life 

Brown crisp and about to be lost, 

The bare barks in winter cry.

Roads laid down with fallen ones, 

Like a carpet all brown 

Making music under your feet; 

The last one twitches in the breeze.

A sudden gust of wind blows 

Teaching the tree to finally let go 

Of what was never his. 

Slow and delicate, the last sign of fall 

Welcomes winter with a free fall.

~ Suranya

Sun of the Past

 He would often meet me at pauses, 

Where the lyrics ended and the music started, 

Or that blank page between two chapters, 

He would often tell me, not in words 

But in beautiful silences, unspoken verses; 

Feelings are more powerful than actual articulation.

He would teach me how things were never meant to be told, 

The deepest feelings, strangest dreams and best love stories, 

Best remained in the beat of a heart; 

The secret of the soul, between yours and mine, 

Transpiring through eras, time and space.

And He would promise to come back to me, 

Every night when the city fell asleep. 

For We were such a beautiful, silent magic, 

Hidden from the world, yet in it.

And I waited and waited since dawn, 

For the noises to die down, 

For the lights to fade away into dusk, 

And again the music played on, 

Like a trumpet announcing His arrival, 

At the threshold of my heart.

And every day I would scribble on paper, 

Like a chant, in a trance, his name. 

And His name slowly turned to God's, 

As He arrives again, this time like an idol, 

An idea in the shrine of my Soul.

~ Suranya

Burning

Skins charred, bodies saved 

Living yet gasping for breath. 

Here She stands watching on, 

Not a soul to be seen.

And till it lasts, getting worse and worse 

Just flesh and blood in a sinful curse 

Exploiting Her without remorse 

Destroying Her bit by bit;

Ignorantly intelligent, foolishly wise, 

She had seen enough, 

She had heard helpless cries.

Her rage engulfs them now, 

Before they can realise 

In a slow and steady apocalypse, 

Which could have been averted otherwise. 

~ Suranya