Gargi Arya

Theme I

The Meadows of First Spring

The prettiest blossoms of aurore

In spring's still garden,
every bloom remembers me
the air almost speaks.

I peek from the window,
the daisies beckon,
but their wilting frightens me,
as if autumn already knows.

— I am never meant for long seasons

At First Light

Light and shadow intertwine,
wrapping the room in silence
a quiet christening of night.

But morning breaks the spell,
chasing darkness
from every hidden corner.

Sunlight melts into my skin
as I escape the shadows
and see the sun in his face.

Faceless is the moon
in its borrowed light
looking back at me
every smile, every tear.

— it lets me be

Theme II

In the Shade of Fading Summer

The rooms time left open

Flowing like the pain in me,
the dreary stream of possibilities
they flow, yet diluted is the faith
meant to fill them.

I wade through what might be,
unsure which current holds
and which carries nothing
but motion, rupturing me.

— girlhood

I spend my afternoons
far from sunlit gardens,
confined in matchbox chambers,
painting the pages blue.
Thought, left to itself,
takes on a gentler shade.

My gaze strays and meets the hues
beyond the window
where a garden lies,
and perhaps my heart too.

Flowers turn somewhere,
and blades of grass sway and sway
to the rhythm of the sun's own pulse.
I watch them long.
A wish rises within me,
a tickle in my pen
wanting to weave a song
and give it back to summer.

I'd sing it with the birds there,
released from measure and demand.
Under the patient blue of sky,
which keeps me company
without a word,
the heart learns rest.

And idle hours invite the mind
to not dwell upon their course,
but to wander freely
in wide, summer gardens

— a red-roofed house

Life lets each man play his turn.
If so wrong, then who else but him
who strives and holds onto wisp?

and calls it hope,
mistaking endurance for meaning
because letting go would end the game.

Theme III

The Autumn of Undoing

The waning of all things

Held the victim,
not in agony's grip,
but to part with the strength
they had yet to know.

— the only one, yet one

Serenade I wish for, too

I stretch my arms;
oh moon, away you go.
If only I could feel your light
melt into my skin
and shine through my eyes.

I curse the day;
oh moon, away you turn.
Weep alone for your beloved
whom you long to meet,
but fail each time your chase
you're chasing love.

I tell you stories;
oh moon, not a word from you.
Do you not see hearts break?
Lovers part, and you're silent,
lighting the ways they walk alone.

I ask you questions;
oh moon, unanswered as before,
your face veiled in sorrow,
yet your scars betray you,
silent witness to the world's aching.

Home

I do deeply yearn
for the scent of then,
and to forget it too.

Home, take me home,
where dreams all live,
and I can know they do.

Words all fade too easily
how so easily, I wonder.
I, too, carved out promises,
but not to be forgotten,
and left to melt in the wind.

Most lose track of time,
there's some who chase moments.
I could be one of them,
if I found my way back.

In places I've never known,
those promises breathe,
in them, who love and last.

Theme IV

What the Storms Forgot to Steal

The remnants of the mortal ache

True friends, they say
are meant to stay forever.
Forever is not their task.

The dearest kin
carve the deepest absence,
a silence that drifts,
wide and empty,
like an autumn field,
listening for birds
that will never return.

— the end of always

Even the sun returns at last,
to the moon, as ever,
by custom older than sound,
in the evening's crimson breath.

Their waiting ends at sunset
before the night grows still,
through the fading jet.

— not so with us

Theme V

The Winter of Silver Becoming

Across the hours of waxing argent

I watch the dusk unfold,
as the sun dips in the sea of red,
with its promise in gentle hold,
by the law of time's thread,
to rise yet again at bay,
bringing forth another day.

— as if repetition meant reprieve

Anatomy of Dusk

The sun digs in its heels
and gives away its glow,
all its gold surrendered
to the army of dusking clouds
on their evening march.

All my love, when lost
in the surge of worldly claims,
finds its rest here,
its earned hour,
when even the sky loses
its patience.

My heart slits open,
slipping out of itself.
It escapes, in all substance,
into the unfazed blue,
the color of both
calm and storm.

The flesh, rendered worthless,
I leave behind to thin
and dissolve, colorless,
all shades of nostalgia.
I remain in keeping.

Seasons do not outgrow time.
They pass through it,
weeping, never revisiting.
If this is a curse,
it is one I bear poorly.
I am not half as kind
as the world has made me.

Hello — I'm Gargi.

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awakenings