On the bed of roses, I lay down,
with my beloved’s hand in mine.
In the casket of thorns, I wake up,
without the love of a lover.
Alone.
It’s cold, but there is fire.
My heart burns.
My throat is parched,
but I still scream.
Alone.
There is a tempest,
the winds swear at me.
I walk deep into disgust,
my feet sinking deeper.
Alone.
The never-ending rain of sorrows
burdens my chest;
dragging the mass of regrets
I prepare to fight myself.
Alone.
The swans have left the river
as its water is now polluted.
It would not soothe the burning tomb.
So, I move ahead, dejected.
Alone.
There is rage within me,
my eyes remain dry,
my soul bleeds,
the pain consumes.
And I battle it furiously.
Alone.
I want to cross the mountains,
but my soles still rest on coal.
I take a step forward, into the molten lava,
swallowed by the boiling lake.
Alone.
I willed myself to swim,
and now there is ice.
I see the light and feel the warmth,
a few steps more.
Alone.
I climbed and climbed,
eventually to the door to paradise.
I shed off the darkness
as I conquer the castle.
Alone.
-Anshika Srivastava
B. A. (H) Psychology
Third Year
[Edited by Bhoomi Sati
Art Curated by Anshika Srivastava]
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