The Wildflowers In A Diary

Written by: Prakriti PalChoudhury

Once or twice
On some black and white day
Blurry images grow.
Of a childhood,
Distant and shallow,
Of strangers, one by one
Peeping out of my window,
Closed, you know.

Of the mythical ages
Of teary-eyed me,
Clutching her hand
And not letting go.
I remember one smiling face
Of a boy somewhat like you,
Who laughed
At my stupidity.
And took me by hand
To that quaint ancient house
Of joy and sorrow,
You, a stranger now,
I wouldn't ever know.

Of the children's game
And a mellow afternoon,
Of that crowd,
In our old palace
And you, another face,
Playful and loud.
You, the sharp-eyed one,
The evil grin,
That seemed marshmallow like.
And that room,
You wouldn't let me in.
The days flow,
Like wine, smooth and slow,
You, a stranger now,
I wouldn't ever know.

Of all the madness
That drowned my sadness,
For years,
Of the friendship,
That never happened,
For the sake of my small cuts
Wounds and tears,
I convey here,
That you existed once,
Intense and clear,

For the sprawling sky
Outside the window
Of our class, nearby,
Of the days
Of Harry and Cho,
Of the Room of Requirement,
We know.

Of slow-moving tides, time-slices,
Counting the minutes before it rang,
To end probability and dices.
And the worlds in us, sprang
When the boughs of orange-red
And yellow
Of that Poinciana, o'er my balcony,
Stooped low,
The permutations I made,
I would never show-

You were all strangers,
I wouldn't ever know.