Gaurav Moghe

My heart aches in envy to see the sky today. Its velvet vastness against our shrinking spaces.

I see the clouds, the always restless clouds, shift and stretch, drift and glide, disperse and gather over the sepia twilight sky. I see them whisk and waft and whirl into endless wondrous patterns.

All of this while we stay stuck inside our blighted bedrooms, looking outside of our small windows at the inchoate sky performing a folklore of freedom.

the moon's on flame

here. there's no blue moonlight

on palm trees with coconut

hanging in their swinging

shadows. should I expect sparrows

to sing the songs of thrush and starling?

the sorrow of unreturning to waters

that thrashed my pincode to its depth.


i wait for the sound of the silent

sea in the parched plains. i wait

for the monsoon to arrive on august air

with a note of Kerala in its rain.

i wait for something to become everything.

i visit bus depots, walk down narrow lanes,

go to coffee shops where mustachioed men

take orders in alien words. they all fail.


the boats on backwaters float

like a dot on a timeless spaceless

silver wave of silver reflection,

changing nothing, waiting for none.