Waiting for the Postmaster

The leaves are brown and black,

Fruits are stale with no birds to peck,

River has shrunk to contamination,

And wind still blows the travellers far to the ocean.

Behold, a precious stone sits at the banks of the river,

And waits for her postmaster to return

Her face has withered all the beauteous hopes,

And eyes grown wise to stay for the spring

To return, with the man she loved and cared.

The kajal has spoiled her cheeks 

By the burning tear drops from her heart,

And her bindi on her forehead, unchaste

By the freezing water from the heavens.

Her lips carved poignant by some noble artist,

And breath blows soft like the arctic strings.   

She sits on a stone bench as a stone, cold and silent;

Nature can’t quake her meditative wait for love.

Though weak her body speaks, her soul holds

The power to feed her love with utmost care,

Like once she used to nurse his tender spirit;

A mother, a wife, a daughter, a lover was she in deeds.



But her material age couldn’t stop her lover’s voyage,

Her voice didn’t find a place as his soul mate.

Yet she sits on the banks for her master

To return, and embrace her with no disgrace.