Often ...

Often, at night

When I lay myself to bed,

Before the sweet sleep has

Engraved me in its warmth.

I think back to the dead days;

Their glory, the carefree laughter

That running through the house untamed,

Those smiles that could melt one's heart.

Often, in the early morn,

I find myself tending the mighty Paarijaat

Spreading it's branches in my backyard.

Standing underneath it,

Surrounded by the wide carpet of white;

Every falling flower reminds me

Of all the love lost.

All the haunted memories

Of a saint wishing to kiss my lips,

Right after I'd bathed in the Holy Ganga,

With my form doused in saffron hues;

In the wee hours of the cold morning.

Often, when I'm walking down the busy road,

My mind drifts back to

All the plans I'd crafted.

Back when my heart was pure,

Untouched by the flames of sorrow.

All the distant lands, I wanted to visit.

Every foreign tongue, I wanted to speak.

And every often,

Tears would flow down my cheeks.

A reminder to

All the things best left forgotten;

Every soul dead to me.