autumn will be my home

march is like a fair maiden in a white sari
constantly asking me to take the first train home
and I am an autumn daughter with a rotten mouth,
refusing to unbar the broken windows and door.

my mouth has become a graveyard of words
that could not crawl out, and died
and my tongue is its only headstone.
there father, I have silently used your gifts well –
the (not)home and the (not)love,
I have turned them into chains of iron
and adorned my hands and feet with them.
so understand when I say I cannot take the train home.

forgive me mother, I cannot return
for march is nothing but a stranger
and I am just an autumn daughter.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

the chains on my body are no longer rusted,
they have grown fruits of their own.
now I know even a new place can be called a home.

Sharodi H
12/03/2022, 11:50 pm