Territory of one

Four square metres is plenty to unroll a bed
of sad news, hidden away at its seams
to sleep with a blanket of melancholia
singing softly in our dreams

A loss in isolation is lost in translation
No vocabulary to cope, no tears to quell
these emotions of drought and deprivation
they leave our tongues and minds barren

unable to taste the grief, smell the salt
we bundle up our beds and wipe the floor
with the dampness of debilitating distress
and soak up the remorse

The light from the window clears away sediments
of rage and guilt, poking holes in the garbs of silence we wore
This time around, no hands are party to ताली or थाली
It’s time we gained immunity from flamboyant futility