Photographs

By Aryesh Maurya

Some colours scattered on a paper piece, 

Some images formed which remain still; 

All of it from a distant past, 

But visit-able at your will. 

Some showing tears, some smiles and laughs, 

Yes, I talk about photographs. 

So small pieces, so light and thin, 

They flutter even in the easy wind; 

Yet how strong, memories they hold, 

Thousand feelings, trapped within. 

Some born at events, some through maps, 

Yes, I talk about photographs. 

They make a bridge to carry you, 

And force you to travel through; 

And go back to the very moment, 

That now is old but once was new. 

They reflect your younger halves, 

Yes, I talk about photographs. 

Few of them dusty and torn, 

At bottom-last of rusty cases; 

May not even recall a few, 

Still, it’s lovely to untie childhood shoelaces. 

So wonderfully they fill all the gaps, 

Yes, I talk about photographs. 

But here, all I see is black. 

All black I see I know is ash. 

In my eyes or hands, don’t know; 

But heart is sure going to crash. 

Now tears roll down; they wet my lap 

Please unburn my photographs.

By Aryesh Maurya