// Painted Spring //

I. 

The spring we painted on my doors

has grown old now. 

It cries in pain, in despair. 

I am tired, tired of consoling it.

I say things I don’t mean. I lie to it.

 

II.

You left, leaving our spring alone, 

with me, whom you took along.  

So I wrote poems on my soul,

about the testimony of our spring,

that’s slowly aging.

 

III.

Last night, our spring asked me;

where are you and why are you gone.

I didn’t say anything.

Hence, our spring took my silence

for an answer, smiling.

 

IV. 

So I asked you the questions

I left unanswered, in books,

in oceans, in paintings.

I felt your unspoken angst in my mind

but how do i tell it to anyone,

for nobody understands

your words of silence.

 

V. 

I had to find an answer,

so i found hope,

in the blood of my tongue

that I bit while talking to you

between the ends of my verses.

 

VI.

At the risk of sounding like

a forgotten song,

I confessed to our spring,

confessions of my dead feelings.

It asked me in return;

 

VII.

do you love my willingness to sound

naive and happy? Do you still love me?

I didn’t know what to say.

So I washed it away.

But it’s naive cries didn’t leave,

they cried oceans

while I painted a new spring.

- Disha