Tales of Volcanoes

Every morning she has tea with the story teller. Because it is good for the heart he says. She smiles and listens as he rambles on, about the village of his childhood, the one with blue sandy beaches and democracy and communism. He's crossed distant seas too, in different circumstances, to find calm in a foriegn land. But his eyes sparkle  and dance as he explains, haltingly in a foriegn tongue, how the weather was beautiful in summer but ugly in monsoon. How back then there were no roads to get to or away from home. He talks of the exotic fruits in his backyard, and the volcanic ash that covered thier homes and wasnt too cruel on them. He has stories, everyday, more fascinating each time and in those dancing eyes she sees the exotic foriegn lands she may never set foot on.

He's right. Tea is good for the heart.


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Silent Sunlight

Tears make beautiful poets, silent ones even more so. Melancholy bleeding into words, seething with pain, seeking relief. Searching for morphine in entangled thoughts.

But its the carefree mind thats the ultimate narcotic. An expanse of ultimate wilderness, days blending with nights into dawn. A glimpse of utopia always present within arms reach. Maybe it was always this easy , maybe it was always there.
The blissful state of ignorance.While it lasts.



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