How it feels?

Tell me, because I'm not told of
how it feels to be touched,
to be swallowed in a gulp,
or to breathe inside a container
with a tight lid covering over my body.

All I do is float, fly, get heavy
and then cry.

All I've done my damn entire life is
drawing shades over the land:
shapes people could never identify right.

The blame I endure
for obstructing the sun,
for downpouring on wee hours
and to not reap harvest on time
adds the weight on me,
pulling me down
to the point that a mountain can
pierce my chest.

Even if I walked on earth,
fainted on a road,
bleeding my heart out,
counting my breath till it last swept
and left the ground
and if someone spotted me cramping,
where's home?
Which direction should they take me
to reach my grave
or to rest on the hospital bed on time;
having someone to hold my hand
and wishing to peep into the dreams
I am not awakened from any soon.

Where's that love
people get when their death is declared.
Who'll mourn for me? Nobody.
No cloud can cry for me.
No river can take me along.

So, tell me
how it feels
having no sky to touch,
no desires
as plaintive as mine
but something more cloudy
stuffed in the same sky
like home,
like closeness
and of days you left
for somewhere together.

-Khushi Kaul