Tag Archives: Waiting

I wait for the rain

I wait for the rain all day long.
I’ll smell the sky,
mud in the pots and old red walls.
I will forget everything
Of broken heart of the black bird
shooed away for her colour.
Of small crooked stone like particles
that made my eyes red and teary.
Of waiting for a home standing alone
but never too lonely amidst
tall trees all around and a lake
of green water how I saw in picture books.
Of longing for the end of this loop
they tell me is life and I,
I do not believe and I will not believe
for life is for now in the rain and
in my desperateness
to wait and wait and then to forget.

I wait for the rain all day long.
Summer starts stinking
no way different from people crushed in
small big houses with minds still alike
and their wraths and dooms.
Dust covers our faces as if before it
we stood naked and raw and
our minds not so corrupt.
I wonder, I wonder if summer intends
to make jokes on us and
laugh every season on our broken bloom.
Hot air we breathe but bones still frozen
and I wait for the season to match with
how my heart feels.
May be then my songs and sorrows
will drown together into one another,
may be the same way first rain drops
sizzle on the wet old heated floors.

I wait for the rain all day long.
Vast summer lands stand lonely,
but do they look betrayed?
Sun burning for whom?
What grandeur has he ever owned?
Muse is always that moonlit sky
under which the lovers sleep.
Those strokes of hot but golden light
that fall on the dirty footpaths
are eaten as sausage with dry wheat rolls
by beggars enrobing their dreams
with sky full of lies,
every night, every night.
Who knows these lies are their only shimmer, the only gold of their life?

I wait for the rain all day long.
Everything is wrong, so wrong,
but everything will be right when the sky
is not too bright,
a little dull and a pause without funerals.
Waiting remains but
seasons change;
But a man never said four seasons
be enough for escapes and
when have we not asked for more,
but a little more?
An unseen solitary ocean is waiting
in my songs for a few drops to wet my face.
I wait for rain all day long.
I wait……


Of being able to say what I can’t hold anymore.
Of time.
Not running out of my hands like sand.
Creeping slowly when I want to halt and feel nothing.
Of being able to cry,
Oh cry!
Cry my bones out
and feel weightless.
To feel it sliding down my stomach
that wet, teary smelled, broken breath
that makes noise like death.

Of a month after months,
a day when all the waiting
would be justified.
Of transformation.
When walls, smells, soaps, noises, faces, foods, colours, water, spaces, vacuums, fillers, rooms, ceilings, birds, roads, dust, seasons would change.
Of answers beyond the stories of transformations.
Would it be enough?
Or would I still wait for another story with a longer waiting?
And would this be my life?
Just this?

Of being loved the way I want.
Of being able to drown into those moments that look like pauses,
like photographs still and deep.
And no matter how long you gaze at them,
nothing about them changes.
Of someone someday loving me
without telling the need to leave
for work, meetings and appointments.
Someone free
of the damages of this world.

Of being able to cut off from these ideas
that I never chose but
they still surround me like daily soaps
running in some distant room.
Whom would you want to kill more?
The makers or the viewers?
The idea of settling down,
earning money,
getting up at 8 and sleeping at 10,
using calendars and watches and setting alarms,
of being a people pleaser,
going to parties and wearing make up,
of not being moody, looking presentable,
following dress codes, hiding womanhood,
avoiding rebels, hating rovers, condemning hippies,
men and women and some other avoidable species,
hate the government, argue to look safe,
women’s respect is in her vagina, men have balls of steel,
live in hypocrisy and die full of regrets.
Of imagination.
Imagine a world without these ideas.
Of realisations such as these:
even imaginations
are nothing less than wars.

Of rushing into now and now
and now in this next moment.
When anything can happen
Or maybe nothing would happen.
But at least it will be a newer now.
And in every now
I look a little more like nothingness.
Every now full of silence.
More peace and the world
more disappeared.

Of someday being able to
write this again
another space, pen and paper
and putting an end to it.
No, not the poem,
the longings.