Sana Rose | Featured Poet | May 2016

Article Posted in: Featured Poet

Sana Rose | Featured Poet | May 2016 | Issue XVI

Introduction to the Poet:


There’s a folded, wrinkled paper

in my tattered purse.

A mosaic of white with blue ink blots

and yellowish stains.

Torn from the middle of a notebook,

hastily written over.

A butterfly with two hearts for wings

adorn a corner of the page.

“Amor vincit omnia,” says your

mediocre handwriting.


But I loved the mediocrity –

all that the worn little letter held.

Your voice, my eyes.

Your smile, my tears.

Your words, my hope.

Your touch, my dreams.


Long back, you had time

to convince me

of the possibilities ahead.

Today, I’m there,

we are there,

yet I find myself keeping the note,

slipping back into the intoxication

of beginnings…


From time to time,

twisting time back seems

like a great idea.

I could turn back time until

just before

the first


just to feel the trembles

all over again,

just to feel the quiver in my lips,

just to revisit the need in your eyes,

just to hear that voice again,

from another time.


But for now,

I shall make do with

the fossil in my purse…





Your silence is my undoing –

I take the cue to welcome

the loneliness.

I find refuge in

a green bottle of icy water –

my parched soul

soaks it up

to the edge of survival.


Your silence is my nourishment –

I hoard upon it like

broken timepieces.

I find solace in

the ticks of bygone moments –

my moist skin

irrigates the dryness

to the point of giving up.


Your silence is my veil –

I hide behind it from

my own muteness.

I find invisibility in

the uncouth pleats of the cloth –

my sheer deafness

takes a blind eye

to the brazen touch of needs.





The silence is laced

by the sparrow’s song.

It could be in my dreams,

in the stardust that adorns

the walls of my soul,

or in a cloud that is

floating away farther.


I love you, I love you

to the point of pain –

but why doesn’t it get across?


Why does the bridge burn down

when the whispers are halfway,

why do the winds drown

the murmurs in their howl?


Why does a word crawl across

the distance between us?


Why does it stall,

despite the open door?


Why do the voices

choose to sleep?


Why do we stay?





The number was too high that

one was not going to make a difference.


I hibernate my system,

slip into the world I love –

there is too much out there to catch up.


I grope the weak spots

amidst my countless stretchmarks –

there is always a new pit to fall,

new depths to me that

I can never resurface from.


The baby snuggles closer

to catch her train of dreams;

the mother blinks to clear hers,

sniffs at her offspring

for that baby smell

that’s already fading.


Time is on time;

I wait with a clock in my hands,

but the hands that matter

keep turning forward –

I miss the moment every day

and what remains is

a jaded quilt of memories.





The cherry blossoms

are in my reveries;

the ones that are real

were in the wildernesses I lost into,

in my childhood.


The cherries we picked were pink

and some white –

never red like the pictures.


So were we.


The thorns that scraped us

were chided, too –

they were only for so long.


So was our childhood.


We are sisters in time –

in pain, lessons and



We are sisters in those

bird-pecked fruits;

in chewed mango leaves,

hidden feathers

in our dusty books.


We are sisters

in everything that was

kept for another lifetime.


Yet, I yearn to go back

for the unpicked cherries;

the petals we forgot to share,

the moments we forgot

to live.


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