Before your silence petrified my words,
they were as malleable as clay.
Then
I could have shaped them into little deepams
to brighten your gray moments
given to grayer despair.
But it was not to be….
Or illumine your path
to vantage spots of clear vision.
But it was not to be….
My words were not meant to shadow
your silence,
or become self-involved,
or you-involved –
something went wrong.
Sadly,
Your silence was not a shrine
where my awe-filled words
could fall silent;
where my silence could then flow in a
prayerful
perennial stream
around yours.
My words will soon be silent….
My words
are tired
of knocking on the doors of your silence.
Even their gentle knock can seem insistent,
an insult to
your silence.
They are weak-eyed
from peering
and peering
into your dark silence
night and day
for a passing vision
of a tiny drop of light.
They are tired
of craning forward
to catch each word,
each phrase of your silence,
which speaks an unfamiliar language,
that I cannot pick up in any school.
Tired
of kneeling at the doorstep of your silence
bruised
sore
my words now wish to be
supine
silent.
My words
trailed your silence
like a faithful puppy
following an amnesiac master.
Dog-tired,
they now wish to curl up and sleep.
Your words
given to others are
fleshed out
succulent;
those given to me,
if ever,
are bone dry.
Your denial to me of your words
made me crave for more
till the burning hunger
set my silence ablaze.
I looked in horror
at the words
that this unsated hunger spawned
and said, “No more of this.”
There was no need for my words to persist;
there was no need for your silence to be punitive.
There were other ways of defining
where we can
or cannot meet.
What went wrong?
True, life is more than your silence;
it is more than my need for your words.
But the ceaseless footfalls of my words
have left their impress on the space
around your silence –
how will you efface that?
This much I know-
my words,
yoked to my circular thoughts,
are sterile.
My words will adopt silence.
Your words
your silence
are yours to keep.
When I speak no more
and if you ever wonder why,
stop by and pick up my words
meant only for you,
crafted with care and concern
only for you,
in this book….
This book, which cannot be read,
till your silence lets its multiple walls
collapse in a spreading heap…
till your silence relaxes its tight-lipped censure
of my words…
till your silence takes them in
graciously
in a generous gesture
of giving them a hearing
one more time.
My words will perish;
your silence might last a little longer.
Will this awareness revive,
what once was?
My words will soon be silent.
Then your silence can shriek
or speak in balmy honeyed tongues
but I will no longer hear….
Your messageful silence
will never reach the spot
I will inhabit in deaf-mute silence.
There is another scenario:
choose –
listen to the soft silences
between my words.
In those small spaces your silence
and my words
can meet
without dissonance.
Life is more than your silence;
it is more than my need for your words….
Postscript:
My words are not flaccid,
I know –
your silence steals a glance at them
now and then,
unaware
that I am aware.
Tall and imposing,
your silence
cannot dwarf my words,
which pull themselves up to a proud height,
and walk with ardent steps
the unclear road to the spot
that overlooks expansive vistas
stretching beyond your silence.
I beseech you –
walk away from your silence with sedate steps
and I will look askance at my words.
Come join me
on the road to that spot
of fused ‘regard’/vision
of lofty vistas
where nothing matters…
except the moment’s gift
of ‘you’ and ‘I’
dissolved….
My words will soon be silent…
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