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richasmukherjee.com

love, laughter, pain, joy, life and its lessons, one word at a time

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Hope

An heirloom

 

I owe you so much little one
I’ve tried to repay this debt in tears, patience, lessons, hugs and kisses
But there is so much more I want to show you before this world implodes and consumes itself
A million crimson sunsets, where you can just hear that slight thud when the horizon gets greedy and gobbles up the fiery spheres
Beautiful rivers that carry hopes and goods and people, up and down, like the tides of life
Mute verdure mountains awash with the beauty of simplicity
Kind people who help everyone in their paths like gentle streams rearranging pebbles along their way
Gestures that are laden with hope and happiness, not reciprocity
Long drives taking us to new places, new people, new experiences and sometimes to nowhere
This basket that I’m weaving for you is full of small, simple, happy things
I’ll cover them all with a blanket of hope as I pass them on to you
I know you will look back and wonder what there is left to love in a world packed to the brim with hate, violence, blood and sorrow
But that is when I want you to sit with this little basket and see the wondrous world that was, and still could be, through my eyes

Red Bosphorus


Every part of me aches.Racked by a nameless fever or rage, despair, hopelessness.

I was infected by tears, mutilated bodies, lives torn asunder and ashes of hope.

Hope that were dashed against walls by terror, guns, knives, bombs.

I look at you gasping for breath now, clutching , grasping for composure and it breaks my heart.

I walked your cobbled streets, walking to nowhere, breathing in the industriousness and determination of those fishermen selling hamsi every day. Served with just the right drizzle of salt and smiles.

My heart rose and fell with the tides of the Bosphorous.

My eyes glazed with wonder as they swallowed the grand mosques and minarets dotting your Crimson skies

How my aching feet danced away with those little childrenin the streets of Grand Bazaar.

Rows upon rows of twinkling chandelier studded lanes lighting up sparkles of hope.

My hands are now still. Sometimes wringing in wretched frustration, sometimes in prayer.

Look what they have done to you my poor darling.

Those warm smiles , embraces and chatter have dissolved into tears and are flowing away, turning your shores red.

Let our prayers, memories and love be the raincoat that shields you from this storm of hate.

Let them lash, let them rage and spew hatred outside.

They will never get to your golden soul, but one day the world will get to them. And they will have nowhere to hide.

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