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Akshaya Sutrave

Abstract

4.5  

Akshaya Sutrave

Abstract

The Guest That Never Came

The Guest That Never Came

3 mins
359


I sit by the sparse of land, 

Pen in hand and book on lap,

Amid grassy meadows and towering mountains.

Under the baking sun.

My spirits hovering high.


I stare into the distance, 

My eyes narrowed,

My mind whirring,

Breeze singing -

wilting melodies into my ear.


I wait hours for my guest.

Sitting still in the sands of time,

Watching the world go by,

Moving not a muscle,

Lest I should miss my guest.


I return everyday,

At dawn with rising hopes,

And leaving with only my thoughts for company.

Yet, I don't lose hope,

Even as the book grows heavy in my hands.


I forget myself,

Casting my eyes elsewhere,

Searching crowds and emptiness,

For the guest that belongs to me.


Sometimes, I stare at the empty book,

Pages of blinding white,

Glossy, unused paper,

And my filled ink pen.


There's something bursting inside me,

A rooted longing.

But I don't let it move.

It cascades to my fingers,

But I always stop it.


Days pass.

Weeks.

Months.

Maybe years.

Who knows? Not me.

I'm waiting for my guest.


Everyone moves in the cycle of life,

Growing up, growing old.

But I sit motionless,

Unmoving, like a stone.

Where is my guest?


The paper grows old, 

Brittle and fraying.

The ink dries completely.

My hair starts graying,

Wrinkles appearing on my face.


Although I cannot see so well anymore,

I return every day.

To the same place by the creek,

In the same sunshiny meadow.

Where I spent the last fifty years.


Slowly, I turn weak,

Every breath feeling laborious.

Now, I can barely move, 

Only stay there.


My longing shrivels up inside me,

The energy receding from my fingers.

I'm left with the wind's howling,

But no guest with me.


"Why don't you come?" I say,

"What keeps you waiting?

Haven't you realized,

I need you?"

Only the moors laugh in response.


I sit by the sparse of land,

Once a youth of twenty,

But now only a voice among the trees.

I sit by the whining gusts of wind,

Until I'm one of them.


I wait for the guest,

The guest who would make my dreams come true.

I wait, until I don't have a dream anymore, 

Until I'm only a fragment of the past. 


But what would have happened,

if I had put pen to paper, even once?


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