What a sweet calling!
You never knew how eager I was to hear your voice.
For ages I have been hibernating
under the mantle of grief
awaiting that clarion call
like a chick within its egg-shell.
I never thought that the mundane chores
would sit heavy on my shoulders;
that the few miles that separate us
would seem light-years.
When the electrical signal was converted into
a sweet sonorous wave and reached my ear-drum
it bathed me in moonlight
dusting-off layers of settled rote, dreary, inane motions.
How swiftly it carried me to your presence!
And in spite of the thick spatial screen separating us
I could see you as clearly as I see you on a TV screen.
As words vied to to get out of the orifice of gullet,
they got jammed and an outward silence reigned.
They simmered, however, within
reaching a state of highest entropy.
When they came out, they came out scissored
giving sentences a telegraphic look.
Thank God, I am born after Graham Bell!
Had it not been,
feeling the warmth of my own tear
would have been a metaphysical concept.
All along, whenever I sat alone,
I was shackled by the lonely reviewing of the past,
And the ultimate reconciling
to the condemned solitary navigation over high seas.
But when we together put oars to the past,
it reduced to a capsule.
When you bade me good bye,
I descended from the ninth cloud.
Past was no longer a shackle.
Nor did it plague me anymore as was its wont.
Instead, it has become a recipe,
a remedy for my insipid existence.
I think one should take his past in spoonfuls
every now and then under friendly administration
for a wholesome living.