Interlude

 

We are all in our separate conquests,

in search for peace,
paths intertwined, roads crossed,
routes entangled and journeys shared
to a destination not found 
but which finds us instead.
The wind whispering the names of the ones 
who sat there long ago, gone and forgotten,
memories etched on stones and fingers entwined, 
among amber and crimson leaves, 
crumbling to grains
and gradually gallivanting to an abominable abyss. 
Soon after the dust settles, 
wisps of long-lost fragments
of frail faith and flights of fancy, 
come back slowly 
believing a better tale. 
And when the sun sets sweetly down 
way below the gulmohar, 
some subtle souvenirs are safely kept 
for another day lived lest lost.