Crimson as passion Blood of rebels Love not of roses And burgundy wine But dense and strong With the spirit of strife. Will it change the course Of our human history? See, how we remain trapped In the power corridors Every drop shed, evaporates Without leaving a trace! All efforts, a lost crusade!
My broken heart, an artifact In a spectacular box intact Lying in tarnished pieces With crumbling petals of roses A Babushka doll, now faded Holding a ring, long discarded Stale memories wrapped In tissue paper yellowed Bury them all with me When my tired soul flees!
In the darkest hearth of my soul It rears it’s ugly head again This despondency of Being different; Burning realms of loneliness Engulf me in flames I blister, bleed; Sweat, tears of memories Deeply impressed lies Like an intricately coiled Venomous snake in my bed!
It will not hurt What you don’t know? Truth wrapped in muslin Pulsates gently Waiting to birth To sound the death knell Of sweet ignorance Blissful innocence As the soul soaks in Lies and tales Appeasing the mind But stealing the heart Of the pure joy of knowing!
You are the book Nestled on my chest Heaving in deep sleep A story embedded In my thoughts, as I go About daily chores Impatient to trace Inquisitive finger tips On gravely carved scripts Turning over pages Revealing secrets That made me shudder In anticipation of none other But the distant momen when I will curl up with you in bed
Sleep, hurriedly escapes Sliding down gossamer drapes Hearing the kettle whistle Gentle tinkering in the kitchen I wake up knowing you are there Letting the glorious sunrise flirt With the gray in your temples Smiling, I slowly shuffle my feet Step into fuzzy warm slippers To join you in the blissful blaze Of another day of togetherness
The quiet I usually crave Patiently waits for me At the corner of my bed Pillows carry perfume Of freshly washed hair Mildly stained with sweat Of long summer nights; Wrinkled sheets beckon Hiding a half-open book A peeping bookmark hints It may well be time to rest
Shameless dreams spill Sprinting over a window sill Plucked from my eyelids By naughty night angels Who revel at my expense Chuckle with exuberance At how innocently I believe In visions true only in sleep!
Author Rashmi Narzary entwines the fascinating customs of the Kamakhya temple in the Nilachal hills of Assam, India, with the spectacular tradition of the Kumari Goddess in Tilibham, Nepal. In a fictional story that blends mythology and history, legends and existing beliefs, she creates an intriguing narrative centered around the Mother Goddess in South Asian culture. Across the snowy climes of Tilibham, a story blossoms out of loss and yearning, and like any tale of utmost passion and longing, it stretches beyond time and space to remind of the power of sadness to change destinies. The plot arc curves over this canvas. Conflict brims even after 3/4rth of the narration. Anticipation of the resolution makes the book unputdownable.