The sun was young
And earth raw
When it all began
By the street corner, over coffee and cigarettes
They found out how they liked their beer
Chilled, and bajjis, steaming
And their love for reading, words and
The longing for the pain and joy in the abstract
That flower there, that rock, that vulgar colour
Or that child with tousled hair
The wind on a sticky face
All these that made the hearts race
But the sun grew colder, consumed
By his own importance
And the earth bled
A little at a time
And wilted in the cold
Earth was lost as she wondered
What had made the sun turn distant
For days and months she writhed
Replaying an effrontery, a slight
A hurt she did not cause, until
She realised that’s what the damned sons do
Blow hot, blow cold, mostly self-serve
And pin the blame on others, what nerve!
You suns are so vain
You erupt, burn and dance
Only to die a cold death
I may burn with you, perhaps die too
Only to be born elsewhere
To make another sun come to life
I am the earth
I was built to last; for endurance.
About Suma Bhat
Suma is a writer to watch out for, and you heard about her from me. Remember.
Suma and I have been in touch for over three years now, and we do it the old-fashioned way – through long emails, and reading work by each other. This time, Suma wrote to me saying, “I truly wrote it with the one intention of filling you with a bit of cheer.”
Thank you, Suma. You have no idea how much you and this mean to me. And how fabulous this makes me feel.
About Paeans for the Pain
When a BWWer writes me something special, it goes here.
Why do they do it?
I don’t know, but I am, to put it simply, eternally grateful and so absolutely overwhelmed always.