When a sailor, lost at sea, longs for his shore, our hearts go out to him. Little do we know, it is just not the sailor but even the island that yearns for a companion. An island that has been lying there since eternity waiting for him to wash ashore. The Island sings as follows:
Moon slits herself every night; crescent; quarter and Full moon comes back again;
Sun grows; draws shadows; silvers the lining and colors every grain
The water carrying your reflection washes my shore and carry on
And every wave that visits, reminds me how far you have gone
Remember the song, we once sung on these sands,
It was about dreams and few confessions
Rain washed our prints on the sand, that night.
Time did the same to our recollections.
Fostering my seasonal children, I gave them your melodies
In the desperate hope, they would carry ‘em to eager ears.
And I waited. So did the seasons. And the Sun and the stars.
But all in vain.
No one sung them back.
Those unfinished chords still lie there, waiting to be plucked again.
Some tell me that you found a new land,
have built a house, bought a horse or such are tales
I don’t blame memories. Its fragile soul doesn’t see
the faith, which tells me, “The next time you set your sails,
the winds shall row you towards me.
Sometimes on these full moon nights,
I plead your case; I conspire with these stars,
“Show her the way”. In the hope that,
One morning, I might wake up to find you ashore.
One morning, these sands might embrace those feet again.
One morning, old seasons might sway back.
Or maybe, that morning might never see the light of the day.
So says these howling winds,
“A painting knows not the brush that coloured its patches
Lyrics, a stranger to the symphony it might climb upon;
The stars you pray to don’t shine on her sky,
Probably in an autumn evening, on you, the truth might dawn
After all, “You chose to be an Island and she chose to be a lost sailor”