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Dear Mom

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I had a sheet and a pen
to write down everything
that my heart and soul
wanted to convey
but, my hands couldn’t
ink the sheet and my mind
couldn’t put them in words.

I know how it felt
when with all love
you pulled my cheeks
and kissed them
one normal morning
which, however
with your adoration look
turned into a special one.
Later that day, I realized
how stupid was I
to call any day a normal day;
for everyday of my life
I have you beside me,
and that was special
and shall remain
forever and beyond.

Perhaps, I wanted to tell you
how much I love you
in words, in poems.
But you know?
I couldn’t really convey it.

The blank sheet then looked
at me in disappointment.
Perhaps, it didn’t want
itself to remain expressionless.

I picked up my pencil
started to draw lines, curves
whatever that my hands could
and my heart would draw.

I remember how your eyes
glittered in happiness
how your eyes could shine
even when they were moist
after my love to you was conveyed.
It was then I realized that
sometimes a picture speaks
more than words.
I know that I would never have
enough words to tell you
how much you mean to me
or to say that my life without you
would be worthless and suffocating.
However, I hope that the colors that
filled the sheet could tell you
a bit about my love and respect
I have for you, dear Mom.

– Kritika Vashist

PS. This is the painting that I gifted her.

Nothing of Me

ss

There is nothing of my own,
none of my poems,
or an unsung song.

There is nothing more whole,
nothing more infinite
than my ever devoted soul.

Musing floating in the space,
scattered words trying to trace,
in the little universe inside me,
the one that believes,
despite what crafted world says,
nothing, but love reveals;
whatever I am,
whatever I was.

There is nothing this nature hasn’t shown;
There is nothing of me I haven’t known.

From the winds,
speaking for my feisty sail,
an unheard, unknown tale.

From the moonlight,
veiling my unfrequented face,
leaving an imperceptible trace.

From the infinity of sky,
embracing my love’s agelessness,
raining my love’s melancholiness.

Nothing but,
the poems I write,
nothing of which is mine;
a rumination of that mystical love,
residing in me.

Day after day,
I realize,
nothing of me is possible to think,
nothing of me is possible to ink.

In gaze and stillness,
I realize,
nothing of me was ever adulterated,
it was nothing,
but a liberation unstated.

There is nothing of me I haven’t known.
The poems I write
The songs I sing
In the wind that blows
When the night falls.
Everything,
from the tiny universe within.

However,
This world knows nothing of me;
The warmth of my love,
the bitterness of my love.

This world knows nothing of me;
Of what I am,
of what I could be.

– Kritika Vashist

(Lately, I have been feeling as if few abstruse thoughts and philosophies of life, which, I think and write are not what I decided to, but a force within takes my hands and places them on the keyboard and makes them to draw the words I wanted to keep to myself somewhere beneath the soul, where nothing of me and no one can reach.)