I spent a few hours standing at the centre of my rooftop, observing the thunderstorm that hit me from right and left, sometimes with an unprecedented anguish and sometimes how desperate love touches; childlike. I stood there letting my skin soak whatever it could- of the rain that has made my heart half sentimental, as it is.
Nobody ever taught me that when it rains, I would feel good, I would feel nostalgic. Some of my bruises would come alive and some would be washed off. I just fell in love with the rain in the most conventional manner. I gazed at it, I felt it and I couldn’t make sense of the blooming earth without a few drops of rain dancing around it.
Maybe, I am trying to say that in that thunderstorm, observing it, soaking it and believing in it- I realised it was a lot of my life. A lull and a song, paralleled, flowing in various directions but just for the same purpose: to be a life, a love, a freedom.
I wait for you, for the eternal love between you and the aching soil,
I wait to smell the sky opening like a cave to let you break,
mud in the pots and old red walls painted in your colourless colour.
I forget everything, you’re my manner of detachment
from agonies and suffering that make me dreadfully dry.
I forget the laments of the broken heart of that black bird
once shooed away for her colour and once for her free song.
They taught me it’s an act of a fool to wait for something
which is temporary and seasonal, but what are you if not the face of freedom?
Do you not break your ties with the vastness of the sky
to meet your old graves buried in the soil?
I love how I fail to believe you’re a season’s gift and
I’m a desperate freak in your waiting and in forgetting of this drained self.
Summer begins to stink, no way different from these people, poor bodies,
crushed in small yellowed houses caged in their wraths and dooms.
I wonder if summer intends to make jokes, every season, on our shattered blossom.
Hot air we breathe but bones still frozen.
I wait for you, for the season to match with how my heart feels.
Only on your arrival, do my songs and sorrows drown into one another,
Just like the first rain drops sizzling on the forsaken old heated floors.
I wait for you all day long, without measures and calculations
everything is wrong, so wrong, but everything will be right
when the sky is not too bright, a little dull and lifeless for a while,
and then your beginning, the upheaval first and a continued soothing hymn.
Waiting remains but seasons change;
But a man never said four seasons be enough for escapes and
when have I not asked for more, just a little more of you?
An unseen solitary ocean is waiting in my songs
for a few dewdrops of petrichor to let me melt
my ruins of reality with you.