Vision blurring.
Walking back into
those woods
of painted glass,
windows of cold
in houses of warmth.
Hands on the strap,
translucent egos.
Imagine some fruit,
an exotic world of
absolute truth.
A black lie, an orange brute.
A hanging garden
of halos, red carpet
full of saving grace,
plates filled with money
stolen from wallets
of strangers in a subway.
A balloon set free.
Do you know what
peace sounds like?
Have you heard a
baby sleeping?
The sirens are blaring
of dreams lost in forests of Crimea.
Dig a wholesome pit
throw in all the portraits
we lost, of all the flesh that rots.
Plant petals of chocolate cream
And give it all back
To me, to them.
Pick a paintbrush
break it into two,
bury it in this earth.
Roads don’t make
them shiver anymore.
Build more homes
for the homeless,
crawl into the pit you
keep digging.
Lie in there to understand
this world of silence.
The noise will make
sense only then.
Only then.
Have you tasted the sweetness
off of her fingers?
Examined his forehead
for seas of pristine blue?
Give yourself to the world.
Keep the fear two feet away.
Climb a ladder.
Fight the snake, bite it hard.
Brew all the venom
and make it into medicine.
Heal the sadness, truly to cure it.
Be your own saving grace.
The bridges you walked
were built by fists and palms,
neurons of nostalgia
demented parlours of damp ceilings.
By labours of a lost few, of
typing love songs into the void,
sailing in a sea of autobots.
You burn one, you lose a billion.
You save one, you save yourself.
-Yastika Sharma
BA (Hons.) Geography
Edited by Anushka and Pallavi
Art curated by Anshika
Comments