...and a memory.

This is the story of a song.
It is a song that grew –
Running around the flowers
Bitter-sweet dewy mornings.
A song that tried
So hard – to break out
Into the world.
A song that hummed
Inane unheard fantasies
In a tousled head
Behind lost eyes.

This is the story of a song –
A song that found a tune
Among half-lit stubs
Of glowing cigarettes
And little toppling stacks of ash –
Dust grey and yellowing.
Among baby green blades
Of new grass – underfoot.
A song that flitted around
Untuned guitars –
Laying to dust in a sunlit corner
By a cracked window
And a misfit curtain
Canvas and the paints
Were lost somewhere in between
With the fifth string.

Between the broken semitones
Of an old piano
With a croak.
And lay to rest
In the folds of the draperies
Magic and coffee
On a winter morning.

A song that trembled
On drunk fingers
Yellowing skin and uneven nails
Resting against the keys
Jerking to life –
And then laying down again
Withered and wearied.
A song that died
On an empty gravestone
With a voice –
And a memory.

Tamu.

Tamalika. Running to the camera. As usual. The yelp at the beginning is bhoda, who she used to sing 'my bonnie lies over the ocean' for. You can see him at the door. Googli at the camera.