by Ayushi Rawat
The Wall.
It stands there.
Solid. Impassive. Depressing.
The Wall.
Who would listen
to its stories?
It was the sky
for that sweet child
who scribbled on it,
his dreams.
It was the manifestation
of her pain,
her silent suffering,
her unattended love;
that woman in vermillion
and other manners of it.
It eavesdropped on those
conspiracies;
them ‘heroes’
when warred against the world.
It painted itself
smoke and flavour;
shades of black,
tints of yellow,
when them ‘cooks’
were at work.
I touched it,
felt the winter.
I leaned against it,
felt the heat.
It’s been this patient
audience;
to my ramblings. Confessions.
Misdeeds.
It has stored
a hundred stories,
some poems,
all neat.
The Wall.
It stands there.
Obvious. Pressing. Buzzing.
Yet who would listen
to its stories?
Cottage Reader 