When The Sky Bled

By Udita Sharma

I pinned my lips to the hallowed window,

watching my eyes wander

at the misty print on the glass;

then back at the eagle,

floating amongst grey clouds.

And for a second - just a second,

it was as if his sharp, yellow eyes met mine.

Perhaps I was mistaken

for another great bird like him,

yet to race him

to the very end of the dark sky

hanging above my head,

pressing a cold gun;

threatening to leave me mangled

The crashing lightning too —

mistaken for bullets,

pierces burning flesh.

A dove’s feathers;

smeared in sickening blood.

But it didn’t know—

was it the dove that bled,

or the bullet?

I thought of the dark winds outside,

and wished—just once—

to be the wind;

Not the smothered ashes

of a dream carried by it.

A voice crashed against my ears,

Like waves ruthlessly crash on helpless grains of sand;

Dragged away when they dare lie too close to the sea.

I fell closer to the window;

Closer to the dark sky,

I knocked hard,

on the glass.

Maybe—just maybe—

some descendant of mine

would trace the marks

left by my sharp knuckles;

and shatter the window.

Thick autumn winds blew.

The casement shivered.

I pressed my fingers deeper

into the cold railing;

almost yearning for the bird's bleeding soul—

to seep in, to stain, my fingers

deep red.

I imagined the thick, hot liquid

tracing creases in my palm.

For a second, I went numb;

As if the blood seeped deeper,

through my blistered skin,

mixing with my own.

The railing trembled

beneath my grip,

or perhaps,

it was my fingers shivering.

It was hard to tell

where the dark winds stopped,

and I began.

Outside the walls

of my dim room,

the dove

took its final flight.

Lightning struck its heart.

But it didn’t bleed.

The dark sky bled.

The eagle and I,

we watched—

helpless.

A single crack of sunlight

might have kept the dove aloft.

By Udita Sharma