From The Quill

 Wreaths of rhododendrons in honour of the brave,  Smell of jasmine, rose petal sprinklers in the celebration;  But the sweetest smell that surpassed these was  That of your soft Heena-painted hands. Drums and horns of celebration across the land,  Singers and dancers at court till the wine poured late,  Yet the most beautiful of music was  Of your anklets' tinkle in the echoes of the palace.  A monument of marble, a fort conquered far beyond.  But home for my wandering heart  Remained your open courtyard.  A royal title, a guard of honour, a sword  Yet your letters were still my greatest reward:  A rule laid, fate separated,  Your heart remained the rebel, as did mine.  I painted your image in a corner of my room,  As you left an everlasting imprint on my heart. The gust of wind blew,  It travelled across the plains,  Over the hills of the Aravallis.  It brought me a tint of dust from your so...

 Alone on a bench in a park, she sat,  Staring at the couples on the picnic mats. Children playing in the lawns, She spotted a man all alone.  Shook her head in a disapproving glance  She should never have taken the chance.  "One human? Ill omen", She shrugged, flapping her wings,  She flew away from the scene. © Suranya

 In a frolic of hide and seek,  You remain hidden from me tonight;  O Guiding Star,  Unseen in the darkness like a shadow,  You perhaps appear with light.  Oh, how I desire to see you.  I weep over thee  Like I would for a near one. I feel restless to feel warm again.  But tonight you seem like a stranger to me. Cold, like a distant dream perhaps,  You walked away tonight  And took my dreams with you. Perhaps that is why sleep refuses me tonight. My salty tears turn themselves.  Into waves of turbulent questions  Over my mere existence and purpose. Who am I? What am I?  Without an identity or purpose? © Suranya

And yet another day passes by, and I realise that I feel less and less. For everything around me. My existence is at stake. My humanity is in question. I can't come to terms with the fact that I can't be understood, I can't be heard. My silences are killing me, as a part of my heart learns to unlearn everything it once learned and detach from what hurts and a part of my mind feeds it with logic. Why is it the right thing to do? And then there is my soul. It eats away dreams, piece by piece, trying hard not to think of all the things it once deemed true. © Suranya