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A letter that wasn’t meant to be found

8th December 2023 | 3 Views

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Untitled Design30th October 2023, 
the day says. 
Woke up with a sudden thought of 
reviving some memories down the lane. 
Opened my dilapidated casket,
a brown and squared-shaped hamper
with a smell of ancient rose wine, 
which filled the golden-lit room with 
a touch of memory that invaded 
the shallow souls of the long gone, 
quite peckish with the effervescence of 
the unburnt wood. 
The day will be remembered before 
it vanishes into thin air, 
like the trains hooting for the arrival of something unforgettable. 
They say it was hard to not recall the chirpings of the turned yellow pages, beautifully penned with the ink that was once used by my grandmother to write the grocery list. 
Little did she know, 
something frivolous would replace its vicinity of slowly understood words. 
The eyes gaze into the distant realms, weaving verses of memories that are hurtful, of course. 
I found something oddly remaining in that casket, 
a letter that was never meant to reach me. At least, I hoped so. 
Why do all the unfound things have to hurt that much? 
It seems to be the knife of ink or a dagger’s edge, 
embellished with sharp words, 
cutting deep and through, 
echoing the verses of despair, 
almost painted like a soul’s hue. 
Forever to stay. 
The letter said, 
“Once the gifts cherished has now become a darkened lore,
which weighs me more upon my heart. 
They don’t hold any meaning to me, 
They are too doomed to be. 
I hope you do understand my heart’s decree, 
the broken form of the velvety trinkets and the jewels neither fair nor bright, 
can mend the strings of our delight. 
Just like the incarnations in the tomb, 
these are in disarray. 
To be said the truth, 
it reflects the darkness of our plight. 
The withered petals, once so soft and lively, 
cradles the memories of a once vibrant bloom, 
the elegance fades away with the scars in our lives, 
nonetheless, it’s just a poignant bouquet of fleeting darkened memories, 
that no one wants to hold close.”
The tears roll down from my eyes, 
like the crystal streams, cold and clear, 
mourning the hymn of the sonnet of my soul, 
the more these words are stirred, 
my heart creates a hollow void in it, 
with each elixir being a droplet of verse, 
a story so untold. 
Emotions cascading with the symphony of sorrow and beauty intertwined, 
the ghosts of my past grieve over my soul, 
a long abandoned place, no visitors of course, 
where whispers of bittersweet memories linger, 
coaxed with the sweet honey, 
the echoes of time proved to be fatal sighs through the crumbling walls, 
a grand tapestry awaiting to be reanimated from the ruins of the long-lived malachite growing through the edges of the walls, 
patience oozing out with an effulgent charm. 
The day is not any better, 
not the sunset I wished for, 
as if the clouds are draped in sorrow’s shroud, 
where sunlight in between the tropical rainforests weeps in muted hues, 
the cold breeze of late October whispers tales of sombre yores, 
the past has regained its voice, 
a haunting rekindle to a long lost flame reawakening in the heart’s hearth.

Ankita Dey



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