by Samson Haokip

In the cloudless sky of an ending August night Four stars populate the sky,

The cool wind of winter permeates

The moist warm atmosphere of Delhi.

This fresh touch of an impending winter

Tingles my nerves and spine

Not for its cool, passive touch

But for another reason altogether—and the reason is Change.

Change in all forms and sizes is always unnerving. One can’t predict what the spring or winter brings But one surely knows, feels

the exhilaration of standing at the cusp of a change. These may or may not be desired

But once its foot reaches the plains of our reality We begin to change.

Nothing ever stays the same:

That which does – also changes,

Morphs into a relic left behind.

I do not fear Change,

Not anymore

But the cusp is not a pleasant place to stay:

The longer I tarry and anticipate

The lesser I become in my own eyes.

Sometimes, I want to stay

Not because the cusp is a pleasant place to stay

But because my failed nerves and dying sinews

Refuse to budge, to move.

Sometimes, I prefer delaying the heavy hand of disruption, Though I know the later it reaches me

The heavier becomes the blow.

I admit my desires are not the best,

But I sometimes give in to them

I admit that sometimes

The cusp freezes me

And instead of burdening my feet firm

I let them float;

5 RAW WHISPERS I Edition 4

Let myself flow in the many airs and winds. I admit that sometimes I give up

On trying my best to fix and build Whatever it is I envision and dream—

But I also get back up

And in-between these two moments of falling and getting back up I drift into an invisible stream

Felt only by me

Where I let my sinews unwind,

Die and grow again.

I take my time.

The exhilaration of being in the cusp Overwhelms me—

And I let it.

There I die a couple of times

Until death no longer worries me— at least for some time.

In this cusp I feel

The creative urge to pen a verse.

My verse is ethereal,

It seems to not have a substance but why should I Attempt to justify

The inner workings of my mind?

It is the love child

Of the cloudless August night

And my sense perception.

Just as the cool winds can inspire a verse

So can a mosquito’s bite end it.

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Raw Whispers Magazine, edition 3.

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