My Hands

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My hands

Are stained

By your deep colour

 

My hands

They burn

From the flames that glow in you

 

My hands

Are healed

By the foaming waves that twist and turn in your belly

 

My hands

Are damp

When they slip around on your palms

 

My hands

Are restless

So they tip toe upon your naked bossom

 

My hands

They itch

To draw something new upon your canvas

 

My hands 

Are battered

Fresh against your war torn fists

 

My hands

Are curious

They ask questions to the answers they think they already know

 

Your hands

Are open

Patiently spilling out thought after thought 

 

My hands 

Were forgotten

Discarded like a book that has been read too much

 

My hands 

Aren’t my hands any anymore

They ceased to bring out the beauty of the moon anymore

 

My hands 

Have broken their silence

For in the space between us

 

They have found a new home

Veins of Teal

Once there was a girl

With hair that flowed

Like the teal river of zeelandia

 

The valley of unrest 

Is where she goes

For the silence is a blessing

And solitude she seeks

 

The forest calls out to her

Echos words not discernable

To none, save the ones paying heed

 

She listens, but pays no heed

And spends her travel decrypting

The songs of the forest

 

For she too wants to dance 

In the moonlight like the flowers

She too wants to shine like the water

Under the gaze of the stars, which lead her on

 

Her limbs are coated in a sheen of sweat

And dust 

A testament to the distance she’s covered

 

The valley

Stretches out to the horizon itself

And she gazes over it hungrily

She has arrived

 

The valley is still

Where time appears to have stopped

And the wind doesn’t thow her tresses into a mess

 

A pool of water

Its shade deepest of blues

Is where she washes her weary limbs

And tired mind

 

Her tiny feet

Walk past trees

That seem to move without any sound

 

Her dusty hands

Clutch rock after rock

In her pursuit to climb 

To the top of the cliff

 

She arises amongst clouds

And cautiously walks to the edge

Of the highest peak of the valley

 

A bunch of lillies adorn a rock

Covered in veins of moss

She bends forward, and breathes in deep

And fills her lungs with the scent of ol’ perfume

 

She sighs

 

A sigh

 

Which echos

 

Throughout 

 

The valley

 

Drumming her hands against her thighs

While bobbing her head

She sings softly into the valley

Where no other sound is heard

 

Once there was a girl

Who sung the songs of the forest

Whose meaning eluded her no more

The Manganiyar Classroom

image

This teacher has it all figured out
There is only right and wrong
No shades of grey
One syllabus to rule them all

The mellow sunrise
With colours dancing between yellow and orange
Seems muffled and grey
From a classroom window

Skipping stones
Bouncing marbles
Drumming on pots
Drumming on buckets

They say,
That the teacher learns more from the students..
Then why don’t the students lead the class?

This melody that he’s drank
Runs in his veins all day.
And every morning,
A new melody runs.

The melody blinds his eye,
As he enters class
And shall be with him when he leaves,
The day’s studies already forgotten.

Memorizing lines,
Inking notebooks,
Drumming on desks
Drumming on desks

The afternoon sun
With dancing sun rays and brightness
Seems inviting and warm
When leaving the class

Running out as soon as the bell rings
Jumping with his friends,
It’s a long journey home for him
And he has a long song for the road.