Language of Compassion

By Deepali Singla

Underneath the quiet pulse of twilight skies,

there are wallflowers, seeking forgiveness

from the moonlight.

I open my hands to let my fingers

dance to the rhythm of my heart,

slowly and quickly,

whichever way the emotions

freely walk.

Ladybugs crawl in the grass,

their fierce red merges

with eternal green,

forming the yellow of the rainbow.

I remember touching yellow for the first time,

my tiny four-year-old fingers all

covered with nascent summer;

in those days,

I didn’t even know winters existed.

Time passes me by,

and the grass grows greener;

mysterious lessons like ‘nothing lasts forever,’

even if it is the grey of hatred,

often meet me on solitary mornings,

which has taught me to love myself

more than trying to find meaning in

the going people and abrupt endings.

By Deepali Singla