In this 7th poetry collection the poet seeks for her voice and her lost muse. Her verses seem to have vanished and she keeps failing to rediscover them. On her way to new revelations, she looks back on the past, craving for those old days. "The hush of the pen world" is torturing her slowly but in the end, the poet makes peace with the new times that have knocked on her door.
Vermilion
Vermilion stars dance above us.
If just one could fall
to cut this darkness, and colour
it in iridescent shades;
mutilate this gloom with
those sparkling blades.
They keep dancing, though;
forgetting we're not
of steel; nor are we made of copper
nothing we do is ever proper;
every attempt is abortive
funder this sky, are we captives?
Oh, vermilion stars!
Fall!
Illuminate our lives!
Echo
Again, a desert of words in the throat;
a fear of losing the world I know.
I became a statue cold,
no blink, no breath
perhaps, just an echo of love
whispering in the distance
of a billion light years,
vibrating in the icy veins;
so, the sky sometimes clears.
the wasteland around the statue’s lair.
But the echo resonates
in this marble heart,
it forever stays.
The seams
All the seams on the soul
have yielded ;
a torrent threatens
to dash the dams;
flood all the crops,
this is where the world ends.
Poetry – declared a forfeit!
Nothing to revive this torpor,
the hands no longer bleed
over the pale sheets of boredom.
All the seams on the soul
have yielded;
an ocean already born.
I am sinking, drowning
in the embrace of the cold bottom.
There I’ll live
but no breath in the lungs,
there I’ll wait
for the resurrection of A sun!