The song of silence

The song of silence

I am sitting alone
Trying to find my soul a home
Is it in the nest where comes back the sparrow after dissevering the clouds?
Is it in the pond where the baby goldfish sleeps with sea plants as its shrouds?
Is it under the rock covered by the snow?
Is it within the coloured drapery of the rainbow?
Or is it between the lavenders laying in the old man’s orchard in a row?

There’s a mirror beside the chair.
It shows everything present in the room except the fine air.
It shows the wall which is getting discoloured.
It shows the half eaten meal left uncovered.
It shows the rusted back door through which nobody enters.
It also shows me the clothes I never wore which I bought for extreme winters.
It shows the photo hangings which have bitter sweet memories.
But it never shows the caprices I have in my eyes whenever I am looking at it.
If all that mirror showed us was true
Then both water and sky would actually be blue

Does my soul belong to the story I heard in my grandma’s lap?
Or does it belong to speech that gave me the principal’s playful tap?
Does it belong to the circus I saw on Grandpa’s shoulders?
Or the animal’s song for which my brain had separate folders?
Is it from the odour of the mud after the rain?
Or from the solitary street down the lane?
Sometimes I feel it has its links somewhere beyond the stars.
Or maybe it is still stuck in the past which gave it those scars.

I sit alone
Trying to find my soul a home
Ending up my own thoughts battling among themselves, creating violence
And I suddenly realize all this while I was actually listening to the song of silence.

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