Some tattered letters, some tattered dreams
(I owe this text to Goethe and his “Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel”, your guitar, and the music filling the empty space of my room, while I was busy scribbling.)
“My poor head is turned; my poor mind is in pieces,
My peace is gone, my heart is heavy, I shall never find peace again, never any more
Where I look out of the window, I am looking out for you
When I leave the house, I am going to you”
Nourishing life, for a moment and then longing forever. Leave, let go, fly and never come back. I call it – Periyar. A sleepless Periyar listening to the silences of night, a pair of eyes wide opened to feed an experience. Periyar is a moon that lingers even in brightest daylight. The stillness of the night was interrupted by the monotonous sound of rain drops; one tempting the other to fall, to mingle in the jingle of the night. The fragrance of wild spring flowers, the innocence of purring words, the mystery of tree house and the mellifluous poetry of clouds enchanted the terrain of my thoughts. The divine hands conspired against my sanity. For once I wanted to sip the potion of “amor vivo”.
The raindrops ploughed a distant dream, some stolen memories, few conceits, and a world of verses. The blades of grass were merrily lost in the identity of bookmarks. Rubiyat must have filled his cup in one of these nights and lost in - the meandering Periyar. Suddenly, a streak of lightening ruptured the reverie of my ancient sulkings. In the midst of this rainy lullaby I saw the tree dancing in tune with the silent flakes of memories, while some of them were swimming in the creased water of Periyar. Drain them, drain them far, and free them from freedom. Open your hands let loose the fireflies, let them find their destiny – and find their Periyar.
Let this night be forever young, never dying in the mirror of dawn. Let the water of Periyar write this briefest-life with the perfume of ferns of an untravelled road. Some of the beauties are better concealed from the eyes of day. People call you Shangri-la, I believe you are – Periyar, a chalice - nurturing the fables of night.
(I owe this text to Goethe and his “Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel”, your guitar, and the music filling the empty space of my room, while I was busy scribbling.)
“My poor head is turned; my poor mind is in pieces,
My peace is gone, my heart is heavy, I shall never find peace again, never any more
Where I look out of the window, I am looking out for you
When I leave the house, I am going to you”
Nourishing life, for a moment and then longing forever. Leave, let go, fly and never come back. I call it – Periyar. A sleepless Periyar listening to the silences of night, a pair of eyes wide opened to feed an experience. Periyar is a moon that lingers even in brightest daylight. The stillness of the night was interrupted by the monotonous sound of rain drops; one tempting the other to fall, to mingle in the jingle of the night. The fragrance of wild spring flowers, the innocence of purring words, the mystery of tree house and the mellifluous poetry of clouds enchanted the terrain of my thoughts. The divine hands conspired against my sanity. For once I wanted to sip the potion of “amor vivo”.
The raindrops ploughed a distant dream, some stolen memories, few conceits, and a world of verses. The blades of grass were merrily lost in the identity of bookmarks. Rubiyat must have filled his cup in one of these nights and lost in - the meandering Periyar. Suddenly, a streak of lightening ruptured the reverie of my ancient sulkings. In the midst of this rainy lullaby I saw the tree dancing in tune with the silent flakes of memories, while some of them were swimming in the creased water of Periyar. Drain them, drain them far, and free them from freedom. Open your hands let loose the fireflies, let them find their destiny – and find their Periyar.
Let this night be forever young, never dying in the mirror of dawn. Let the water of Periyar write this briefest-life with the perfume of ferns of an untravelled road. Some of the beauties are better concealed from the eyes of day. People call you Shangri-la, I believe you are – Periyar, a chalice - nurturing the fables of night.
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