Broken
These winter days
break like the sun
line breaks, breaks on
tarred roads, trees are broken
branches sprawl into never ending
denial. Brokenness is denial
of an absolute. The absolute pure winter
is broken, when the rain pounds heavily
on the heart, the body or the roof top
sepulchre of birds are broken
damnation, winter of broken lines
and threatening cyclonic storms
give to your movements my
Unbroken spirit.
Yet this never ceases, this continuous
uprooting of usual: cold, wind, frost and
heavy burden of coats and jackets.
Something is just broken these winters
glass pieces strewn, bottles lying unwanted
and a thin greyish yellow veils your broken face.
Ananya S Guha
Shillong, INDIA.
This one is a beauty.
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