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© Siddharth Nishar


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These padlocks will tattle on you,

Tell journeymen of an empty home,

They will peep into clumsy windows

And find your workshop in disrepair,

No groaning armours inside to fend them --

"This is not a warrior's home!" --

The wind will spill silver wind chimes

All over their beggar ears and force

Hungry eyes onto the gold of her dress,

Framed where you sometimes stare at it

On nights too full of nothing soft,

They will rush without anticipation

And knock over the jade bowl,

Your crypt of unforgetting:

A blue-rose earring, the plastic hairpin,

That raspberry sherbet drops from her purse,

They lie as mummies under jealous vigil,

Scattered and waiting for deliverance

In hands that find in them clairvoyance,

"Yes, I will survive you just yet",

Their boots will creak on floorboards

That lead to deeper places,

Rooms where winds cannot reach

And it still smells of old summers,

Where the wallpaper cannot contain

The aldehydes of new construction,

All you remember of your visits are tears,

Wet tears, always, warm tears,

These men will unhinge croaking doors

But what will they take?

Perhaps the craft paper stars she taped

On the lilac ceiling with trembling hands

As you sinfully waited for her to fall,

But they will leave the room, it's haunted

By the hiccups of pealing echoes,

They will leave your home red-handed,

Their boots heavier on decaying wood,

You will stare from behind curtains

and wonder, why do you lock doors at all?

poetry windows windchimes rooms curtains

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