Poems, Stories

Just like our friend, wind…

The winds blow,
Through the courtyard,
Across the windows,
Caressing the doors,
Brushing the floors,
Circling the rooms,
Of the old house,
Down the lane,
Reminiscing, bellowing,
Begging for the past,
However all it gets,
Is its own silence in return.
The wind chimes,
Are no longer her allies,
Not her foes either,
Just mute spectators,
Of her anguish and agony,
The empty kitchens,
Are uninviting and cold,
The wafting aromas,
Just a slice of past,
Their friendship was envied,
But now, the wind blows alone.
Evenings used to scream,
The toiling day men had,
And nights used to heal,
With the playful, loving,
Gusts, aided by fans,
The tattered curtains,
Are left now,
Hiding it all, in their folds.
A mechanical quiet,
Envelopes all,
Protecting everything within,
Trapping in the dome,
Separating all that exists,
Otherwise they too,
Will start yearning for change,
Or maybe the past too,
Which can’t be brought back,
But revived it can be,
And revivval is what,
They fear the most,
As the unpararrelled strength,
Might destroy the order,
They so meticulously created.
So what is left to do,
Is visiting the barrages,
Of good old memories,
Just like our friend, wind,
With its wishful thinking,
Lamenting and grieving,
How the winds of change,
Left nothing untouched,unchanged,
Yet everything had changed.

©Bhagyashree 2022. All rights reserved.

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Until the next time,


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