First,
the cup's warmth—an embrace against parched lips, a balm for the soul’s
desolation,
quenching
the thirst of an arid heart.
Second,
it swallows solitude's gnawing ache,
A
fleeting antidote to silence’s shroud.
Third,
it plunges into the barren streams of spirit,
a
quest to flood the caverns of forgotten dreams,
while
the fourth releases a wisp of steam,
dissolving
the weight of life’s cruel inequities,
seeping
like whispers through the skin.
Fifth,
it sharpens the fogged edges of thought,
purifying
the murky pools of consciousness, each sip a clearing, a desperate clarity,
as the
sixth conjures shadows of the eternal,
calling
forth the lost, the beloved, the unsung.
Then,
the seventh—oh rapture—
a
momentary glimpse of a world unmarred by despair,
but in
the eighth, a shattering truth descends—
the
bitter weight of exploitation, dregs left behind,
as the
breeze stirs, a lament in the air,
kanchi,
saile, maile—where is my Darjeeling?
I lean
into the wind, yearning for distant hills,
haunted
by hands that toil, voices muted,
imagining
the lush leaves, sun-kissed labour,
adrift
yet anchored, tethered to the lingering truth.
(Email:
anuvishub@gmail.com)
