She is the keeper of time,
yielding to the ignorance of life
she sits up, her eyes lined,
sooty like the ashes,
of withered lives,
or fires burnt by,
masquerading crusaders, or,
apologetic forests,
whose canopies yield,
in the sunlight that floods in,
to survive a generation lost,
lost in time, reviving,
all that cried in its own fire.
and died, and left no trace.
Here, she betrays,
that she is the keeper of time,
in that she quietly shines,
her hair flashing all the while,
with oil from the rosemary,
whose seeds refused but burst,
to aimless desires,
and the smell of lavender,
flooded in prescriptive harmony,
she let down her hair,
and embraced her nails,
shapely and curved, pink with health,
quietly convincing,
of a wonderful day ahead.
Holding the clock, of gold,
encrusted with gems carbuncular red,
round it was, a little roundabout,
clasped in her hands,
the gold chain on which,
the clock, it hung freely,
or so it seems,
for she is the keeper of time,
and time was a manifestation,
that flowed and caressed,
her every curve, embraced,
by the velvety robe,
that straddled the floor,
and little did it hide,
shapely, pedicured nails of the feet.
And from her lips,
she could sing, her saintly hymns,
or so, it seemed to her,
or was it, but I couldn't care,
as much as she could, no, not the least.
For she is the keeper of time,
I am a passer by, uneventful,
with no rhyme, and no desire,
taciturn, timid and numb,
quietly ticking like the clockwork ,
slowing down, when those eyes tickle,
with titillation I perceive,
then hastening in stride, when in her misery,
faster than the clock can tick.
For I am, time and she is the keeper of time.
Kartiek Agarwal
.
