The darkness danced around me,
Silhouettes of ghosts of the past
Appeared as a form of regret
Shattering me within.
And I embrace it with grace
For in its intoxicated presence
I could see You near me.
I weren't I yet You were You.
We talked, we danced, we recited poems
We dreamt that things weren't the same;
Until the evening sky gave way to morning gloom
And you faded just like the crescent moon
And now I have to wait for tonight
To see you again.
- Suranya
He was struggling with his first letter to her. He had strangely
written thousands of letters before. To his mother. To his
seniors and subordinates. No letter left him in loss of words
like it did today. What could be written to her? He had promised
to write in an impulse. For when he was leaving for the
battlefield the day after marrying her, maybe because he had
seen it in her eyes. Tears held back. Worries concealed with a
smile. And a sense of loneliness, A sense of getting lost in a
palace full of unknown people. Truth be said, he didn't know
what to tell his new bride. But what he did was to assure that he
would write to her. For the first time, the sleepless night made
him sit with a pen and paper and scribble. He had never paid
heed to his words or letters before. They usually talked of
politics and his well-being. But she... She was like a poem to his
heart. Gentle, Deep. And mysterious. Reading between the
lines was not easy when it came to her. He had wondered at
times if, at all, marriage was the right decision. The Warrior
could promise very little to his family. Then, watching her, bold
backed her fears with a brave smile he was reassured. She was a
warrior in herself. He respected that. She had not only bound
him to a relationship. She had started ruling his heart.
Unknowingly, he wrote down a poem about distances. He
smiled at it before signing "Yours eternally" and calling the
messenger as dawn broke in the camp.
© Suranya
The child who promised his mother he would be home soon, the woman whose aged parents were waiting for her return, the activist whose wife had pleaded with him not to go that morning, the clueless merrymakers roaming the gardens; people. Old, young, clueless, unnamed. They didn't deserve it. Yet here we are, a hundred years later, still comprehending thousands of massacres, thousands of deaths, and several families destroyed. For the borders. For the ego of a nation that thought the sun never set on them. For humanity's loop of violence.
Suranya.
Sometimes in the darkest nights, under the bright veil of stars, a dim lamp shone in the room of the gem-studded marble palace. While the Palace slept in silence, no one noticed the gems on the walls, designed to be trees, flowers and shrubs, shine in the light of the lamp like the trees of heaven. It is then that the magic worked in her heart. She would stare at them and imagine how slowly, in the flickering light, they seemed to come alive one by one, swaying in the breeze gently around her. The flowers smelled of a mixture of jasmine, tuberose, and tulips. The shrubs whispered in the wind. In the palace of stones. The imagination made a garden of Eden for the Princess. She sat in a throne under the open sky, surrounded by flowers, forming a canopy over her head. The walls around her, the cold white marble, seemed to have fallen as the wind brought the freshness of the open gardens with it. Once again, the Captive Princess felt free of her chains. Her chains of reality. Somewhere far off in the hills, perhaps she heard a horse neigh. The dream of gardens and fountains broke in dismay. She stared at dawn with a sigh, for the walls rose like a fortress around her again. But this time, someone came running to tell her it wasn't just a dream after all.
"He is here."
Her heart skipped a beat." He is at the vineyards."
The Princess now closed her eyes. In the Eden of her dreams, under the fountain, she found herself sitting on the throne. Beside Him. It was time to finally meet.
© Suranya
