The invisible masks
Unpeopled streets for days,
weeks and months
toss my mind
into a time warp –
a winter of earth’s discontent
with frozen memories
snowballing, and pounding me
into a strange oblivion.
In the park outside my window
birds touch down, chirp in the trees,
after sundown a bevy of shy deers
appears ambling around,
perhaps, they want to check out
if it is the same bustling place.
Even the silvery moon wonders:
What happened to these restless souls?
Still, flowers bloom,
trees fresh green
but kids no more frolic around,
and lovebirds stay hungry
in their desire to clasp and croon
as if they live and meet digitally only.
Is it the forced platonic love of our times?
Outside my window,
the only being I see
seems to be my masked neighbor
walking his puppy on the sidewalks.
In my room, I try to scour through
what they said –
the old men of ageless Rome
Averroes of the Andalusian spring,
Sweet Swan of Avon,
the straight-shooting Bulleh,
mystery-seeking Rumi and Iqbal,
and Twain with his lively spirit.
Will we fare better this time
when we ride out the viral worries?
Kids rush through the rooms
the blood runs through my veins
my love’s arms,
my parents’ healing words
vibes and faces of friends
the dream of a shining city on the hill –
so much to look beyond
the stinging infection.
But, we, who have refused to
meet ourselves, will we finally
embrace the moment of truth?
Will we bare our souls
or stick with the invisible masks?
After that breathless midsummer act
many of us gasped together for air
but the promise of a rainbow life –
with its colors distinct yet knit together –
still awaits the light of day
like my desire for our summer yet to be,
a maskless season yet to be,
and the best of us yet to be.
The poem was originally published in the WordCity Literary Journal.
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