It has been long since:
I held on to my prayers
on the far side of unseen lines,
where desires get accustomed
to travel leaving no trace,
and remembrance seeks nothing
of the remembered.
Years and decades passed
into a distant silence;
yet, for once through a window
of this weird, simulated reality,
some visuals stirred the stillness—
not just a word, not just a face alone
but an unquiet beneath the surface:
And the weary heart,
in its unreasonable script,
kept whispering—
something is amiss,
there is a tremor in the quiet.
So, strived to speak once,
but words miserably failed
even for a customary get going…
I yearned for no solace,
sent no hand across the lines,
sought no forgotten claim
to slip into someone else’s season…
I kept watching the unease
rise and fall within me,
like a surging tide that knows
neither shore nor destination.
Perhaps this is how
some bonds dissolve into twilight;
a quiet ache without demand,
a blessing without address,
a sorrow without ownership,
a quiet warmth
that lives without a plea,
a tenderness sustained
by its own surrender,
or a love that endures
seeking no reciprocity.
Perhaps that is the final
whisper of certain bonds:
If there was a scar,
you had no right to wear it;
If there was a shadow,
you had no light to give.
So, I chose to care—
from the roots where I stood,
within the lines already drawn—
with neither hankering
nor any mundane demand,
hoping for a wordless hope
that beyond my stoic silence,
the other shore
was still kind.
And the chapter has
a learning life-lesson, too:
To care without expecting
to be cared for;
to remember without asking
to be remembered;
to be concerned
without crossing a boundary:
to bestow without
expecting anything in return.
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