Once a blonde girl sang song by the seashore,
Now, she writes dark lyrics for the gone people,
Once she was into white and black spectrum,
She wore royal navy blue.
Now she wears colors of hue.
Those were the color of hurdles that were put on her,
She was chained to her death in the death-chamber,
Amber like her cheeks were fainted pale in the
cruelty of cold winter.
She stays between the greys now, declining all the binaries.
Nothing is too bad; nothing is too good.
But can love be relative?
Or, is it eternal?
The wounds are eternal for sure.
But, what about the subconscious memories that lie beneath the surface
like an undercurrent in the deep blue sea?!
She once wore blue,
Now she herself became a tragic deep sea.
An ocean of blue grief passes in her body like never ending currents.
She does not know where the shore is.
She keeps surfing.
Surfing in the deep blue ocean of grief.
Grief does not knock.
It arranges itself beneath the floorboards of breath.
Folded carefully, like clothes kept for a season that never returns.
She doesn’t think of it…
Yet it knows the way her shoulders bend when
a song stumbles into memory,
or how her throat tightens at names she pretends are ordinary.
It lives where habits churn: in the pause before laughter,
In the long road she takes to avoid one corner of the city,
In the way her hands hesitate before holding what can still be lost.
The subconscious does not cry. It rehearses grief in small gestures—
A cup left untouched, a window opened for no reason.
A sentence I never finish.
An image keeps rotating in her imagination….
He is holding twenty-six white roses for her,
And it never happens. Only when silence grows loud enough does it rise…?
Not as a storm, but as recognition.
And she understands then: she was not avoiding sorrow.
She was carrying it gently, so it wouldn’t spill before she was ready to show it.
And, through withholding and standing with this truth..
Darker she grows….Dark is the safe space where she covers herself now…..
In darker complexes, In a dark appetite….
In the compartmentalization of the heart…she chose to remain incomplete…
Closed all doors…That could lead her home…
Without devouring someone else in her stark dark…
She clears the way.
Obscured but not hidden, shut off but not to be bidden,
Secured but never capitalized,
Yet she sold her heart at the cheapest to the cruelest merchant of the notorious town…
Only to be torn into swooned red…
Oh, the blemishes… Speaks louder than her poised steps.
Darker is her shadow and persona now.
Consumed by the evils she endured.
The demons slay the growing love inside her.
Making her ever cautious not to fall in love again.
With the coming age, she prefers precision over petty precarity.
Darkness surrounds her….
Light of love, laughter, and joy scares her to the bone…
What if everything is temporary?!
Her love is eternal
Like an unfurled bud deciding not to bloom in every season.
©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy
Time Frame: Jan 15, 12.25 pm, Tagar Building.