How long can a butterfly with no wings
can retain its colour,
After how many touches would its fragile flesh
crumble to rust?
If only, rains were the nectar of amrut,
We would never be seen weeping near the ghats.
If only, the drought could make things disappear
I wouldn’t be preserving your ashes like this.
If only, my hands could forget raising you.
I would have dipped them in green all my life, for you.
© Shashank Bhardwaj