Funny.

Are the ways, thoughts sit, talk, walk and caper through the nooks of Her mind.

How they flutter like a butterfly.
Sing, like a broken violin.
Swell like a rain-drunk August tarn.
And brew thunderstorms. Like coffee.

Outlandish, is how they hurtle from one to the other,
Sway from one face to another, and form patchworks:

Like a 4-year-old’s doodle-
Orange with mauve; green with baby pink!

They have always known the chinks to slink in and have followed Her
religiously,

Like a lizard inching towards its prey.

They have haunted Her throughout History like Her own screams in
lonely dark alleys at Night, yet,

They can be beautiful.
Despite all their cruel conspiracies
Of shifting the ground
Of tilting the Universe.

She masquerades under different skins throughout the pages of
History,
Yet such feelings, those thoughts pulsate, uniting Her with the
Rest,
With their incomprehensible, rhythm-less rhythm,
Like music from a broken violin.

And it becomes difficult to understand Her,
To comprehend
Her mood shifts, or,

Why She enjoys weaving Her labyrinths of chaos,
Why She enjoys melancholy evenings,
Why a bouquet of red roses are enough for infinite joy-
Why that glint of joy in Her child’s eyes can compensate for all Her
mistakes.
Why She forgives what is Unforgivable!
Why She forgets what is Unforgettable!
Why She sacrifices the Impossible!

Even She wonders,

Throughout History.
And that smile plays around Mona Lisa’s lips for eternity.

She could have been anybody:
Joan of Arc, Antigone, Clytaemnestra,

She could have been a faceless Afghani
behind Her burkha,
Or Paulo Coelho’s Veronica who decided to die.

Funny are how
Her thoughts can hurtle from one to the other, sway from one
face to another and form patchworks:
Like a 4-year-old’s doodle-
Orange with mauve; green with baby pink.

Outlandish, is how they can trespass in No-Man’s Territory
Unafraid of prosecution.

How they insanely, ardently break all rules!
How they swerve unpredictably like the footsteps of a drunkard and
vanish-

Yes, they can hate like a Hitler.
Love, like a Juliet.
Dream, like a Cinderella

They can play more than God and help create.

They can be beautiful, despite all their cruel conspiracies
Of shifting the ground
Of tilting the Universe.

Rajyashree Sen

(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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