Her memories
Her memories,
come like a falling star,
Seeing which,
I ask for something,
I have heard,
Asking like this gets the job done.
Her memories, come quietly,
I cannot even think,
Oh now!
Oh this place!
The fire of her memories,
Crackles the wet, fungus-covered wood inside,
Makes smoke, her memories,
Have some meanings,
Some shallow meanings,
Which have come out of the river,
Like slimy islands.
Those memories,
Do not flutter in the open air,
But are like a flag stuck on a stick,
wet in the rain
The words of her memories are not her own,
but I have coined those words,
from my own alphabet.
She may not even know the meaning of those words,
the meaning that I know,
the meaning that she does not know.
She does not know the meaning of her own words.
Her memories are like roads,
From one place to another,
then third, fourth, fifth, along the crossroads, signboards, milestones.
Her memories are my struggle.
But every time,
I get air and water, and thus,
I escape from dying.
Her memories have done the work of hell,
making the seeds inside me impure
That which can be sold,
but which cannot be sold,
If it were sold,
I would have buried my old body and taken birth again
Her memories, take me, to their valleys
Where there are some echoes,
there is a very high and low ground,
there is a game of sun and shade
I am not able to tell their memories
Even after saying it many times till today,
it feels as if I have always remained silent
I really feel like telling her memories
Thank you so much for reading. Have a great day. 😊🙏 @vikbuddy
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