The Broken Pitcher
You broke that pitcher;
or was it someone else who did it?
Going by the majestic, double face you wear,
that perhaps is closer to the truth!
The hurt, oh that hurt in your eyes,
while you repress the pathos,
how it seeps like some ominous sillage
to overshadow the poise
of your precarious, vulnerable stance!
Something else broke with the pitcher in your hand,
something more precious and sad,
which you so carefully held to your heart!
I can see it in the way you clasp
the folds of the only satin dress you have!
Yes, I don't want to shrink from that word:
"the only one you have"!
I can see the hurt and the anger,
which you don't see perhaps!
I can see it the way you clasp at the folds
as if to withhold
something else from breaking
along with the pitcher;
your fencing anger in a subtle transformation
moving closer to a desperate defiance.
Wrath and anger were never your privilege perhaps!
And as I gather the fragments
of the thing that broke
something from the fragments comes to me in a continuous stream, unbroken.
At the touch of the world of one
with another world lived apart,
edged with a mist that melts,
we flow into each other
with words that melt into
colours and shadows.
Sushama Karnik (c)
No comments:
Post a Comment