Blades & Flowers

By Udita Sharma

I gaze at this window pane, blurry and dull,

Large, white, and plain—it seems to have cracked solemnly under my steady glare.

Rough, like rocky ocean beds, yet fragile, it quivers in the ruthless rain.

It could grace glamorous mansions, yet it chose this worthless house of frail bamboos.

Who carved this window pane, and who built this life?

 Who shaped your head flawlessly, yet blinded your eyes?

Who sculpted your beautiful nose, but left you breathless?

O, blade of flowers—you are merely sky, ground, and water; now obscured.

 I sit here, gripping my weathered, wooden chair,

 Thunder crashes to the ground; I run my finger over the blur,

Etching shapes of lost dreams.

Why are you sewn with oceans, forests, and cities, devoid of wonder and warmth ?

Why are you painted with greys and blacks, barren of brilliant blends ?

Is mere existence enough in this canvas of blades, bombs, and flowers?

You bestowed darkness, yet gifted us stars too—

you are beautiful and cruel.

By Udita Sharma