Spring flowers had said their goodbyes long back. Their fragile petals had been withered by the harshness in the air. Now, all that was left was a barren expanse where dust gathered gleefully only to give way to frigidity at night. Stepping into this dustbowl, the sudden chill would freeze your steps instantly and awaken you with an electric jolt down your spine.
Merr would go there every night. Dressed sparsely, he would walk up the slope to reach his panoramic vantage point. Once there, the world would swivel and swirl before him to take him away from his grief. It was an idyllic setting, with the stars dancing in their heavenly niches, mocking the death in the lands below and far away from the numbing touch of the North wind that blew across it carrying the stench of more death in its wake.
He had been going there since he survived. Ever since the frolicking Fates decided to let him live with memories of his family’s demise. Ever since he found himself alive, while his wife had an iron rod pierce through her head, and his young children lost their teeth and their lives. He needed perspective to keep himself from driving rashly down the very slope that almost took his life, but didn’t, leaving him far worse than dead instead. And so, he religiously haunted his deserted domain night after night.
All alone, he would stand and watch the lights dim in the valley before him, as people would slow down with waning strength and sunlight and then retire to bed. He would watch the stars above him and wonder why he could still see them. He was never a believer and did not see smiling faces of his family look down beatifically upon him from above. He now had no hearth to return to. He only felt left behind. His mind reeked of the broken promise of always sticking to his folks. And he felt lonelier than ever.
He would not speak of the accident to any of the people down below. It felt to him as though memories were his and his alone, now that nothing else was left behind. People would come and go, offering kind words of sympathy but their condolences went over his head. He was the feather that is undisturbed by a breeze when it has been displaced and shaken by a storm. His nightly ritual of torture was meant only to cleanse himself of the guilt of being alive. Bathing himself in winter and all its cold darkness was his way of suspending time. It would be years before spring would arrive again.
Till that time when the warmth of sunlight would make its presence felt on his soul and thaw his frozen spirit, Merr would let the cold make him forget death and all that he once knew of life.
Merr would go there every night. Dressed sparsely, he would walk up the slope to reach his panoramic vantage point. Once there, the world would swivel and swirl before him to take him away from his grief. It was an idyllic setting, with the stars dancing in their heavenly niches, mocking the death in the lands below and far away from the numbing touch of the North wind that blew across it carrying the stench of more death in its wake.
He had been going there since he survived. Ever since the frolicking Fates decided to let him live with memories of his family’s demise. Ever since he found himself alive, while his wife had an iron rod pierce through her head, and his young children lost their teeth and their lives. He needed perspective to keep himself from driving rashly down the very slope that almost took his life, but didn’t, leaving him far worse than dead instead. And so, he religiously haunted his deserted domain night after night.
All alone, he would stand and watch the lights dim in the valley before him, as people would slow down with waning strength and sunlight and then retire to bed. He would watch the stars above him and wonder why he could still see them. He was never a believer and did not see smiling faces of his family look down beatifically upon him from above. He now had no hearth to return to. He only felt left behind. His mind reeked of the broken promise of always sticking to his folks. And he felt lonelier than ever.
He would not speak of the accident to any of the people down below. It felt to him as though memories were his and his alone, now that nothing else was left behind. People would come and go, offering kind words of sympathy but their condolences went over his head. He was the feather that is undisturbed by a breeze when it has been displaced and shaken by a storm. His nightly ritual of torture was meant only to cleanse himself of the guilt of being alive. Bathing himself in winter and all its cold darkness was his way of suspending time. It would be years before spring would arrive again.
Till that time when the warmth of sunlight would make its presence felt on his soul and thaw his frozen spirit, Merr would let the cold make him forget death and all that he once knew of life.
6 comments:
Nice work.
that is a beautiful piece of work. so much sadness, yet very elegant.
Survivor's guilt composed beautifully in a piece of mature writing. This is why I ask you to write more prose, since this aftermath of a violent crescendo can never be eloquently and eagerly portrayed by a poem; its meaning lost far beneath the murky veils that poesy covers it with.
This is beautiful.
weird, but then, who am I to say so ;)
pls turn off the word verification, it makes commenting a pain.
N
'Merr would let the cold make him forget death and all that he once knew of life.'
Beautifully written LD. This is the kind of writing that makes you feel through its sheer movement...
"the guilt of being alive"
this is really good
actually, your prose is far, far better than your poetry, especially at times like these
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