Clasped Hands Beneath a Century

By Misha Raj

It’s been a 100 years since I’ve felt the sun.

A century of velvet chills

and moss blankets in between damp breaths.

The trees don’t remember me;

they raise their heads to the sky in reverence

stretch out their emerald arms

in a futile attempt at divinity,

even as their roots twist deeper in my veins.

The sun glistens on rocks till they are slick with crimson

glides hungrily through brimming soil;

oblivious to the scorching trail of hollow cracks

It leaves behind.

A 100 years ago, the gods who walked this land

matched the devastating luminescence of the sun.

When it reached for their skin,

they reached back, just as ravenously

Eager to fill their expanse with it’s intangible ripples.

It’s been a 100 years,

but I think I’ll stay down here;

away from the blinding light.

I’ll let the trees seek the gods

who consumed themselves a 100 years ago.

I’ll let the trees chase the dazzling whispers

that dangle out of reach so tantalizingly.

I’ve watched for a 100 years;

breathing in the forest, and its sights.

My skin is flush with the passion of the gods

and the wonder of the trees.

I don’t need to fill my gaps with gossamer light;

the earth flows through my veins,

I feed the clawing roots, undiminished

I spread my limbs

and stretch on: a formidable expanse of my own.

By Misha Raj