Silted Channels of the Heart

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 Memories...
It's sad when sweet memories return —
those days… those moments…
are no more.

Yet even bitter memories
bring a quiet comfort.
Like chilly and sugarcane —
a taste of pain and pleasure.

The pen of time,
on the page of the mind,
scribbles endlessly —
reading and rereading
this fragile script of the soul.

The bundle of my mind
overflows with moments —
the festival of Pooram,
with laughter and longing,
with sorrow and song.

And somewhere…
in the quiet Cochin backwaters,
a houseboat drifts —
a cradle of memories,
rocked gently by waves.

Its weathered planks hold whispers, soft and low,
of lives that danced on currents long ago.
And the memories of the river
flow endlessly —
through silted channels of the heart,
never still, never gone.

She lived there once —
the gypsy fisherman's girl,
with salt in her hair,
nets in her hands,
and dreams in her eyes.

Her days smelled of brine and sunrise,
her nights whispered to the stars.
Lanterns flickered.
Nets swayed.
Her anklets chimed softly on the wooden floor.

In the sea of memories,
today's boat floats —
caught in the tide of yesterday.
It rises, it falls,
it struggles.

"Why are you still here?" asks Today.
"Come," says Tomorrow,
waving gently from the horizon.

Then the sun breaks through the clouds.
My mind leans forward —
speaks softly:

"Never look back.
Move forward.
Walk on…
on the path of life."

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