Brush in hand
Brush in handFrom the moon to the mountains, in grains of sand,
the everyday transformation and exile,
the joy of returning home
rests upon my walking.
Do not
put Sellotape
over it anymore.
One Monday,
at the window of rain,
let the words
that were never spoken
stay with me too,
some rain-soaked
names, some
sunlight that never
made it home.
Leave the door
open, in case
she ever
comes back
to a blurred life.
I will live
with a little courage
in this hazy life.
It raises goosebumps,
the blunt
sky blooms
with stars.
I don't know why
I sit and sit,
waiting, searching,
brush in hand,
looking this way and that.
You have kept so much suspicion
in your eyes.
Why?
I am only a little to the north,
a little to the south,
in surrender.
Poetry by sinha murari
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Written on 2026-09-05 at 21:54
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