I have been painting pictures in the air
And framing them in little cases
That have sprouted
From memories rooted in time.
I have smeared some dust
Across the white spaces
And let my half broken brushes
Fill them with the colours
That I have managed to store away.
The sound of silver trinkets
Wrapped around a mother’s heart,
Echo faintly as I paint little feet
Running across the wooden floors
Into her warm embrace.
I wish I could paint the lullabies too.
One day, I shall take you along
Those little lanes
Where my shadows live.
I shall rewind those reels
And play them for you.
Perhaps then, you will learn
That cruelty too has sweet origins.
Beneath the murky clouds that grip me today,
I too was a child.