THE CONCH SHELL

Traditions fade away

We slowly

Stop hearing the bells ringing

Above the temple roof

And the feet walking

Upon the ornate red floors.

The times we stand 

In front of the garlands

Every step taken

Is from the thought of our ancestors

Watching from above

The guilt makes us wander

Below the stepwells

Join our hands

Before a fading grace

And say our prayers softly

Thinking of the other things

In our heads.

The ghosts of anklets

Singing softly

As women rush by

The open doors

Fade away too

Until all that is left

Is the thought 

Of all the things

Left at home.

We fail

To sync our feet along with them

We fall behind

Trapped

Waiting to leave.

But when the time comes

To blow the conch shell

We know that if it falls

All will end

Then we can go home.

But we see

The women standing 

Holding 

Plates of gold

And we blow the shell

Hearing its music

Rushing in through 

The empty doors

We hold on.

This is our home.

I saw the fires

Some were green

Some were blue

All were dancing

Disappearing into the night.

I saw a face

Hidden within the light

I thought it was mine

But then I remembered 

That this fire was a gateway

To another realm

Where the forgotten

Wait to be remembered.

I will remember you

As long as the firelight keeps dancing,

As long as

The lines between faith and sanity

Are as blurred

As it is now,

As long as the fires still protest

When water tries to douse them off,

As long as

As many keep on burning

So as to keep me

From burning alone.