Solitariness

Today the melancholy surrenders,
infront of the bond between you and I.
For the ocean, it is the color blue,
between its crests and troughs.
Bonding the love and self in one string.

 
For the tree, it is the leaf and the branch,
bonding the pride of its existence
by its veins; the self and self's.
A bond between two
nubivagant halves
of an existing self.

 
For the seasons, 'tis as tight as
the one betwixt September rains
and October winds; a gradient in the self.

 
For the artist, it is the tangerine
of yellow and orange; so beguile.
The crimson of red blending
consistently into the hues of saffrons.

For the poet, it is the heart-touching connectivity
between the metaphors and similes of poetry.
To hold the hands of one, and scream
to the next half of itself, of how beautiful
the poetry they've created together is.

 
For the marionette, it is the bond
between its strings and rhythm.
Waving in the air to say a hello
to people who listen keenly for smiles in disdain.

 
For the musician, it is the beauté
between the raga of the song
and the tone of his voice,
with his expressions tightening the bond.

For the umbrella, it is the warmth
between the hands of the holder and its handle,
bonding as if they will never go apart, afar.

For the magician,
it is the string between his wand
and the brim of the minds her audience.

For the nature,
it is the bond between the bonds in itself
and the eyes in her mind.

With the self, every poetry will surrender,
every art will stagnate,
every tune will vibrate,
every person will meditate,
every sorrow will disappear,
to become a soul that never weeps
because of whom one is, instead feels
in the depths of one's heart,
"You are alive."
Perfectly.
Completely.

- Khushi Kaul