by Shuvra Das
The doors in our dreams shut close
by the wind of memory that blows-
memories of giggly childhood games
of hide and seek and the sweet taste of
fresh oranges that our grandma peeled
with the wintery afternoon sun on her back.
Her hair, pitch black with the oily smell of coconut
turned thin and grey, in our dreams.
The doors of our childhood swing
back and forth on their ancient rusty hinges
as the children of our past
play hide and seek around it. In dark corners
they hide, under the stairs, behind the drapes,
in the many tortuous crevices of our minds
and every so often jump right out,
unexpected, to surprise.
The doors in our past are shut close
to hold behind in the darkness
joys of our past, lest they sneak out
and not return, like we never did.
Joys of those long summer days
spent in the company of cousins and
our very young parents,
plotting mischiefs, playing endless games
around the house in the city that formed us.
The doors in our city, old and colorful,
don’t open for us anymore
lest the long-lost sorrows,
carefully abandoned behind them
walk out to make us sad: the lost lives,
lost years, memories that are long gone,
are all locked away forever, so that
our dreams are only pleasantness of the present.
And the doors of our dreams swing to open and close,
as in comes the winds of change.
© 2023 Shuvra Das All rights reserved.
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