the last pages and
closing the book.
I remember very well,
how the story had a
dramatic end-
Death, justice
and redemption.
Yet there is a sunrise
on the horizon.
The birds seem to be
chirping again.
Flowers blooming
and fresh paint like
hope smearing itself
on the canvas..
For what? I don't know.
The redacted memories
keep resurfacing.
The healed wounds
keep finding new openings.
The closure I wanted
edges itself into a
continuation and the water
I drank out of thirst
reinforces it again.
Caught between a wanting
and a desire unfulfilled.
I stare at the ceiling
beseeching the end this
for once-
And for a moment,
image of Ashwatthama
flashes before my eyes.
And I understand how-
Some stories are beyond
Beginning or an end-
You just have to endure.