The Air

The winter is gone

A sneaking thief
Stealing Hope
Leaving scant telltale signs
In the Air

The Fog has cleared

The Dew still
Left hanging
In the Air

Hibernation done,
Contorted limbs
Shorn of blood
Fail to stretch
In the Air

Old Skin shed

The new; so slow to renew
Raw flesh, naked bones
Open sores exposed
In the Air

Seasoned to Seasons
Dismayed at my failures
To sprout a new leaf
In the Air

Whilst the winter has gone

The spring has lost its way
Meandering on its passage
It struggles, it dithers
Creaking on rusted springs
Ah! The jarring noise it makes
In the Air

The Cicadas have lost

Their song
They can’t find the notes
In the Air

In this vacuum of love

It is not colder
 At this hearth
But it isn’t warmer
In the Air

No longer can I wait

For the spring
Or the Sun
I can feel the shroud of darkness
Envelop the soul
In the Air

I must repair despair

I must persevere
I must break moulds
Of Love and Hate
I must chuck indifference out
In the Air

I must surpass
The longitudes and latitudes
Of time and space
Inhaling, I must refrain from wallowing
In past sins and regrets
Must learn to exhale
The sense of hopelessness
In the Air!

Ah! There is no Moksh

As long as I inhale and exhale
In the Air!
My eyes lie
There is nothing real
In the Air!

It is not me
To be a floating leaf
In the Air!

I must be the air

Free, flowing and ethereal
I do not wish to be here
In this Air!
I must be the Air!

Shyam
18 March 2011