Category: Written in 2024

your book

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

I was cleaning a drawer
Filled with documents and such.
A book I had stashed away
Peeped out from a corner.

It had your poems and accounts
And an old, faded rose.
I forgot if you or I had saved the bloom,
But your handwriting was enough
To send me into a spiral.

The pages of the book were yellow,
Your words were written in pencil,
Your handwriting curvy
And almost illegible.
It was a struggle;
Then your voice
Shone in the words.

The first paragraph I read
Struck me—like a surprise hug.
It was about a sadness
And a wait—like all of life,
With dried petals caught in between.

You reached out to tell me
The written word means much;
It finds light and memory
Through life’s corners in dirty drawers.

Friend

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

The loss may not be great,
For I have stared death, in the face,
And even he did not suffer
To stay too long in one place.

Much like the rain drop
That drops, from the turbulent sky:
She knows not much of where she falls,
On whom, or what, or why –

The sky loses her –
Yet is not diminished by this loss;
Though he is mindful of each drop
And the weight of what it costs.

So I give you up, like he does;
It’s how and what we become that matters:
Your water is bound for withered earth,
While lightning in me, shatters.

Where I Belong

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia3 Comments

The sun will set this day,

The moon may rise at night;

Through hell, there is a way,

I may yet find the light. 

What lingers is a quaint woe,

For the night seems dark and long;

But hell has gates too, you know, 

And it’s not where I belong.