Sravani Saha
1 min readDec 1, 2021

I fall from the deep of eyes where whispers lie,
A strand of restless hair reddens my skin. The autumn
leaf browned in its verdant glory watch from afar.
What bed of loose earth lay in vain to reminisce a
day of sun and smiles, of warmth and hope,
clouded by a nimbus of gray. Here I was, with a pair
of wings to fly, but shackles in my feet to enchain
a flitting mind.

The sycamore stands, a behemoth apparition
of existence, with leaves strewn on the ground, its breath
anoints my wearied thoughts. And when I
wake up, a vermilion glow encircles my soul,
Urging me to walk with chains
still on my feet. The sunlight creeps through
my skin, I see silent cracks appear, a screaming
scorch finally embalmed.

The sycamore falls, a trembling earth spasms,
veins throb with shooting arrows of pain. When the green
turns into blobs of brown, the shackles unchain!
‘I am free’ I scream to the winds, my voice a roaring
ecstasy. But the ageing wood lay silent.
I clasp the rough trunk, giving it a breath of life,
But a few ripples away rests the charm
of a glorious soil.



Sravani Saha

Author of ‘Yes, The Eggplant is A Chicken’ https://amzn.to/2Iym2ok Humorist, Satirist, Mom, Ex-Googler. Write to me at s.sravani@gmail.com