Letters to Kafka | Aishwarya Roy

Letters to Kafka | Aishwarya Roy

//๐˜ž๐˜ณ๐˜ช๐˜ต๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ฏ ๐˜ฌ๐˜ช๐˜ด๐˜ด๐˜ฆ๐˜ด ๐˜ฅ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ’๐˜ต ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ค๐˜ฉ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ๐˜ช๐˜ณ ๐˜ฅ๐˜ฆ๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ข๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ, ๐˜ณ๐˜ข๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ๐˜บ ๐˜ข๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฅ๐˜ณ๐˜ถ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฌ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ธ๐˜ข๐˜บ ๐˜ฃ๐˜บ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜จ๐˜ฉ๐˜ฐ๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ด.

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.

//๐˜๐˜ต ๐˜ฐ๐˜ค๐˜ค๐˜ถ๐˜ณ๐˜ด ๐˜ต๐˜ฐ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ต ๐˜ ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ญ๐˜บ ๐˜ค๐˜ข๐˜ฏ’๐˜ต ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฃ๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ง๐˜ข๐˜ค๐˜ฆ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜บ ๐˜ฑ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ค๐˜ช๐˜ด๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฅ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜ญ. ๐˜–๐˜ฏ๐˜ญ๐˜บ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ธ๐˜ข๐˜บ ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ ๐˜ธ๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ฌ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ข๐˜ธ๐˜ข๐˜บ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ณ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜จ๐˜ฉ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ข๐˜ฃ๐˜ญ๐˜ฆ๐˜ด ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ค๐˜ข๐˜งรฉ, ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ง๐˜ช๐˜จ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ, ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ฅ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ด๐˜ด, ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ต ๐˜ ๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ญ๐˜ญ ๐˜ด๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ.

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.

//๐˜โ€™๐˜ฎ ๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฅ, ๐˜ค๐˜ข๐˜ฏโ€™๐˜ต ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ฌ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ง ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜บ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ธ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ต ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ๐˜ญ๐˜บ ๐˜ต๐˜ฐ ๐˜ญ๐˜ข๐˜บ ๐˜ฎ๐˜บ ๐˜ง๐˜ข๐˜ค๐˜ฆ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ญ๐˜ข๐˜ฑ, ๐˜ง๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ๐˜ญ ๐˜บ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ ๐˜ฎ๐˜บ ๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ฅ ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฎ๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ญ๐˜ช๐˜ฌ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ต ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ณ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜จ๐˜ฉ ๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ญ ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ๐˜ฏ๐˜ช๐˜ต๐˜บ.

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˜ ๐˜ค๐˜ข๐˜ฏโ€™๐˜ต ๐˜ง๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ๐˜ญ ๐˜ข ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ; ๐˜ˆ๐˜ญ๐˜ญ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ๐˜ฏ๐˜ง๐˜ถ๐˜ญ ๐˜ฑ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ข๐˜ญ ๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ฐ๐˜ณ๐˜ฎ๐˜ด ๐˜ข๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฅ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ค๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ด๐˜ช๐˜ฅ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ท๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ๐˜บ ๐˜ฑ๐˜ณ๐˜ช๐˜ท๐˜ข๐˜ต๐˜ฆ ๐˜ด๐˜ฑ๐˜ณ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ง ๐˜ฎ๐˜บ ๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ฅ.

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˜ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ๐˜ด.

(๐˜ฏ๐˜ฐ๐˜ธ ๐˜’๐˜ฎ ๐˜ฆ๐˜ท๐˜ฆ๐˜ฏ ๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ด๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ ๐˜ฎ๐˜บ ๐˜ฏ๐˜ข๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ โ€” ๐˜ช๐˜ต ๐˜ธ๐˜ข๐˜ด ๐˜จ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ ๐˜ด๐˜ฉ๐˜ฐ๐˜ณ๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ด๐˜ฉ๐˜ฐ๐˜ณ๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ ๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ญ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ฎ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ช๐˜ด ๐˜ฏ๐˜ฐ๐˜ธ: ๐˜ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ๐˜ด)

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

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