Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields
of cherry blossom, letting my silence convolve
with the voiceless dreams.

I cried in a language, I never heard.
In the memory of my voice, absconding
for quite a few days. Leaving only regretful notes,
of unending sabbaticals.

Nature never speaks, I observed.
It just pours a volume of voices from its belly,
into a pot full of colors, to melt and coalesce eventually,
for our eyes to fathom in silence.

So the next time, we lie on the bed,
don’t speak, just observe all of my colors
as I trace the aching fan above, dying out slowly,
similarly.

Whisper to me then slowly, if you wish.
of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright?
and yet is not loud enough, for us to tremble and dissolve
in one another, painting our silence
into an unspeakable color of love.

© Shashank Bhardwaj