Jyothy Sreedhar


Excuses subside.

The gambling of diaspora.

Each place is an imagined solace where

peace sojourns… just sojourns.

The line ascends from sacrifice to sacrifice.

now it should be the return to the former.

Still the ethereal other abides

with the purest purity, divine at core.

I remain passive to the verdict of ‘shoulds’

as I know that ‘should’ is dependent

but I am not.

I think. I believe.

No! Perhaps, I try to do it.


I doze off.

I dream of a single horse

which bears me on back, runs ahead of fate

and takes me to a fairy land.

The pink roses bloom on my cheeks again

and a violet irons my lips.

One dew drags the morn the whole way till eve

then the careless moonlight cares.

I’ll again dream of my sweetest past

lending out a soft shadow beside.

I saw myself climbing the rainbow

with a magic wand and a fairy attire

a garland of daffodils, a girdle of lilacs

and all was green on both the sides.

Somehow I slipped and fell in the dark

and all was dark with patches of grey.

Just one moment. The difference.

I wake up in the hot sun.

Lips go apart, smiles too, inexpressive.

My teeth visibly distorted, hard to chew in the truth

and I start all over again.

Excuses subside. No space more.

The gambling of diasporas. Scrambled.

Each place is an imagined solace, an injured one where

peace sojourns… just sojourns in a dreamy waking state