The sound was something
like this: I was facing
facing the valley
and I could count precisely
the number of houses that had lit
their evening lanterns;
it was that time of the day
when the ritual of familiar tea stitches all lose ends
her face as she was placing the ceramic
saucer on the touristy centre table
was the only silent beat.
Yesterday I called her
after watching the news and there it was
in the background. The same window
framing the hills, the same terraced hill houses -
only that very few lanterns must be left now.
She assured me there was peace
after the morning blasts, that she was looking
forward to her college-trip to the nearby beach
and that she had finally watched Titanic.
I looked at the sun spooling light back into itself.
The time signature of that distant echo has left
my low teas forever a little unfamiliar,
my evenings forever slightly unstitched.
Comments about this poem (Crescendo by Astha Gupta )
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