Gone With The Wind— Poem by ashok jadhav

(The stage is bare except for a chair facing the horizon. A strong wind sound rises softly. The speaker stands, hair and coat stirred by an unseen force.)

Gone with the wind—
that's what they call it,
as if loss were light,
as if the wind only takes
what we can afford to lose.
I watched it happen.
Dreams loosened their grip,
promises lifted like dust,
faces faded into distance
before I could memorize them.
The wind came quietly at first—
a change in tone,
a shift in silence.
Then it roared,
and everything I thought was certain
learned how to fly.
Homes became memories.
Love became a direction,
not a place.
Even my name felt unfamiliar,
carried off in pieces.
Do not tell me to be strong.
The wind does not ask permission,
and survival is not courage—
it is instinct wearing a brave face.
Yet still I stand.
Rooted not in what remains,
but in what I remember.
Because though it was taken,
it was once mine.
And that means it mattered.
Gone with the wind—
yes.
But not gone from me.
(The wind sound fades. The speaker faces forward, steady. Lights out.)