Murari Sinha Poet Free verse

Online : Offline

I. Offline

I stayed awake, tethered to the internet,
and watched the night dissolve into morning.
Then, suddenly, I woke to myself.
Good heavens...
All this time,
I had been disconnected
from the one person I had forgotten:
myself.

Sleep came calling.
I pressed my head into the pillow
and whispered,
Mother, take me somewhere I can dream.

In a lonely forest retreat,
where no signal reaches,
I found myself praising solitude.
But somewhere, somehow,
she had a perfect connection.

II. Nothing Was Saved

I scrolled through the night,
and arrived at an autumn morning
with a strange realization:
all those hours
when I had simply been myself,
when I had lived without performing,
had left no trace.
Nothing had been saved.

I kept wondering what the future might bring,
while the present,
one moment at a time,
quietly walked away from me.
And all the streams of feeling,
all the sweetness life had gathered in me,
seemed to have narrowed
into the single click
of a mouse.

III. No One Is Listening

You remain within my heart,
quiet as the goddess of the night,
and perhaps you are at peace there.
But I,
the more I try to let my own music rise,
the more clearly I understand:
there is no one listening.
No ear waiting.
No witness to the sound
I was born to make.

IV. What Light Has Found Your Eyes, Beloved?

Beloved,
what strange light has touched your eyes?
This morning,
the hibiscus beside the window
seems to carry no meaning at all.
It does not bloom for a reason.
It simply blooms.
And I stand before it,
staring like someone
who has forgotten what it means to see.

Then I wonder:
what meaning do our faces possess,
these dark, dark faces
washed in the cold blue light
of our screens?
What remains of us
when the glow fades?

V. A Small Question

With so much already in our hands,
with so much gathered,
acquired,
achieved,
we keep searching
for the answer
to one small question.
Perhaps the smallest questions
are the ones
that refuse to leave us alone.

VI. Once, and Only Once

I wandered through 
hither and thither 
through all the turns
and tangled corners of this life.
And somewhere along the way,
I understood:
this life is a song.
A strange, unfinished song,
with no one waiting to hear it.
No recording.
No second take.
No way to press replay
and return to the moment
when it first came alive.
It does not need a stage.
It does not promise to be remembered.
It simply happens.
Once.
Just once,
the song rises.
And then,
it is gone.

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