//๐๐ณ๐ช๐ต๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฌ๐ช๐ด๐ด๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฏ’๐ต ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฉ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ช๐ณ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ, ๐ณ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ข๐บ ๐ฃ๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐จ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ด๐ต๐ด.
Wandering through the aisles
Of a second-hand bookstore,
I catch a whiff of a perfume,
Very familiar.
Sparks light up the sky and blood pours,
As the glory of paradise descends further
Behind the seam of the world.
I wear my rose-tinted glasses
And feel your heart beat a little faster,
While you hear mine outrace yours.
My eyes drift to the horizon.
The sky is pink
And the sharp prongs
Of bare trees
Have ripped a hole in the clouds.
Through the wound,
The colours of winter
Bleed
And burn
My mind.
//๐๐ต ๐ฐ๐ค๐ค๐ถ๐ณ๐ด ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐บ ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ’๐ต ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ง๐ข๐ค๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ค๐ช๐ด๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ต๐ข๐ช๐ญ. ๐๐ฏ๐ญ๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ข๐บ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ธ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ข๐ธ๐ข๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ข๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ข๐งรฉ, ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ง๐ช๐จ๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ, ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด๐ด, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฆ.
Your mind amuses me;
The way you think, the way words tumble, fumble out of your mind,
Like freshly squeezed orange juice.
You still manage to treat people like beautiful artifacts,
Objects you’d cherish to keep for the coming seasons,
Despite being treated like temporary mental notes, the messages people leave
In order to remember something.
//๐โ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ, ๐ค๐ข๐ฏโ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ญ๐บ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ญ๐ข๐บ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ง๐ข๐ค๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ญ๐ข๐ฑ, ๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ญ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ ๐ญ๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฏ๐ช๐ต๐บ.
You almost look like the crack of dawn,
Not a hair out of place
Brushed hair, perfect smile
Bright enough to stand out
Among a hundred neon hoardings vying for attention.
You make the bustle pause and the traffic slow,
As I count my blessings with every beat my heart skips for you.
//๐ ๐ค๐ข๐ฏโ๐ต ๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ญ ๐ข ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ; ๐๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ๐ฏ๐ง๐ถ๐ญ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ต๐ข๐ญ ๐ด๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฎ๐ด ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐ค๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ด๐ช๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ช๐ท๐ข๐ต๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฑ๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ.
Tonight nobody is watching as we walk;
The shadows of two colloquial hearts tangling, bare.
Petrichor lurking in thin air.
Tonight nobody is watching as we dance;
To no music,
To nothing but the beat
Of our own hearts,
Across every street and boulevard,
As the lamp posts paint us neon.
//๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ๐ด.
(๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐’๐ฎ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ด๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฏ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ โ ๐ช๐ต ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐จ๐ฆ๐ต๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ช๐ด ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ: ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ๐ด)
The pitch-black curtain slowly drapes
Over the sky.
Van Gogh wears wilted sunflowers in his hair,
And takes us to the quaint village
Of Saint Rรฉmy.
He paints us the brightest starry night,
The fallen October leaves have ever seen.
Franz, your name is up in lights now,
But I’d still rather trace it in the stars.
Written by Aishwarya Roy
1 Comment
Very beautiful lines..bringing alive Kafka!