The Morning After
Spring is slowly crawling
away from this old house,
but the urn is warm yet,
what is this dawn today?
the lilies have not come
knocking on this door,
the grey swaying on the sill,
is looking for the rain today
a diya is sitting silently
in the glum shadow of the dead,
the cold stuck to the heart
asks, why is the time still today?
my Kumkum is bereft,
and the running kajal is whispering again—
rest, my dear moon,
under the bed of these wildflowers, today
[ratemypost]
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