The Solitude of the Island
Yellow butterflies circling white acacia flowers.
I sit
Searching for my real self
In the island’s solitude.
My Indian soul
Getting wings from the sea breeze
Flutter
On the blanched wooden bench drenched in rain and burnt in sunlight.
The wind swishes on my ear repeating
The names of ships lost by sea pirates
In the confluence of
The Caribean and the Atlantic.
I sit
Searching my real self
In the island’s solitude.
On the blanched bench drenched in rain and burnt in sunlight.
Some illusion appears in me tellling
That I have already known
The names of distant islands
Rising above the horizon.
I wait
In my solitude
My lips murmuring the imaginary names
I have given them
Expecting them to move towards me to shake my hands.
A black couple
Comes towards me
Sitting alone.
Inquiring about my forefathers
They tell me they are also of Indian origin.
I don’t know why
A nameless bird sitting on the rock near the sea
Should wag its black tail at me.
I sit
Searching for my real self
In the island’s solitude.
