White misty roads,
Dew glistened flowers of the wild
A flag atop a hill,
Dancing like a child
In the white faced winds of the winter.

Yello’d fields of mustard
Gleamed in gold,
As the sun cleared out the obscure morning white,
Dishing out rays,
Like streams of water from a mountain.

All of this to see,
All of which to feel,
In the midst of which,
Walks a man,
Forlorn and lost,
His heart ached from the past,
A memory, that wouldn’t do part.

Each step to him,
A pain-staking forage toward the past,
The beauty that lay before him,

He fell,
His body thumped upon the road of white,
Lifeless he lay,
Amidst the life that surrounded him
In the fields and the living roadside of the hills.

A stream of the spring-sun dished out to him,
And he saw of the truth.

He saw The Flag that danced atop a hill like a child,
He saw Yellow’d fields of Mustard gleam in gold.
And The Flowers of the wild scented a fragrance,
That he had never knew existed.

His past now lay behind him,
Like the lost cold of the winter,
Leeching and reaching toward him,
But He was now freed,

And the past was to him,
What the cold of the winter was to spring.

-Anirudh Shankaran

Photographer- Aarthi Shankaran


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