By Keertana Pisharody
Nostalgia is a thief,
To whom I am a slave.
I carry its precious loot,
Heavier with each passing day.
“But what do you gain in return,
Apart from a callused hand,
Apart from sore shoulders
And the present from which you’re banned?”
“Nonsense!”, I conclude,
I beg to differ, said I, calm.
Maybe I prefer my body worn,
Or a disordered mosaic in my palm.
“I can see right through you,
Don’t defend this wrong.
A heartless robber and a heart-sore sobber
Only lead to a lifeless song.”
A lifeless song? How blatant!
I’m only poor and deprived.
I’m neither his target nor his foe—
Labour is the only way I would've thrived.
Time is a killer,
Yet nostalgia does kindle;
It hugs my soul till I’m no longer empty,
Until I hear my inner child giggle.
“But that time would pass anyway, child,
And your life is yet to be vast,
For how long will you keep burning
Your unignitable love for the past?”
By Keertana Pisharody
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