La Nuit D’Hiver | Sneha Subramanian Kanta
The age of the soul is dead, static. There were sounds of church-bells where I once went to school – now replaced by city smog and sounds of vehicular traffic. Such are fabrics of absence, changed by voids. The children do not come to school with songs of birds on their lips; but sleets of silk rusted lies.
Within the convent corner, the graveyard grows older and wrapped in dust. Weeds are the only company to rotten marble smells. No one reads tombstones these days. We have lost youth at the curtained close of day – it began with red dawn, as crimson a shade as the multipurpose hall. These are fragments – none seem interested in recollections of any kind.
Where did the thought untie, loose to its earlier end? The graveyard has died several times over. Interestingly, some things remain for a long time as they are, I think, with your hand sweep my thigh: intact.