A little boy is fascinated by rain as he sees it, through his room’s window, for the first time. He notices a local war hero sitting across the street. The boy tries to understand him and is perplexed at the inability of the old man to express his feelings.
Not long before the seasons broke,
while shining ball unclothed her cloak
like a bride on her wedding night
beaming like a war gun’s pride
Imprisoned in the grills of affection, I wonder
“Was it the wind that moved the mountain
and the sun and the clouds?, if it may”
Through the canvas of my window,
was carving out birds, who didn’t stay.
The lady says my feet are small
“You couldn’t measure the sky”
Little does she know about my wings
fluttering since and eager to fly
And just like any other day,
I see that body of wrinkles across the lane
Out in the open, unlike me,
he was chained to memories, all the same
Decorated in virtues and shining metals,
there were tales about him.
Sullen face, moustache, and talismanic eyes
of all the masks, he wore grim.
They make men like him in something called ‘war’
I don’t know what it is.
You know, where father went last summer.
Mother still waiting. It sounds like far.
Meanwhile, the clouds conspired
and morphed colour and shape.
Swinging branches paved the way.
Redolent of moss, rains barged in.
“It is your first. Many more, yet, to come”
I stretched out my hand, to grasp them.
In the distant, across the lane,
The old man was still sitting,
drinking through his flask.
The metals are clinging. Still shining.
A faint smile floated in the sea of wrinkles.
I guess, like mine, it was his first, too.
Soon, he folded his chair and his smile.
And shut the door behind him.
You can be a native or a wander boy akin,
you can run for a shade or plunge in
but costly are those smile, costlier when they grow
it’s just that, some men are foreigners, wherever they go.