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Stories, I Hear You
I am not a storyteller,
but so may I speak.
Floating over the water,
looking through the clouds,
the Sun's ray, leaked.
Then a sudden,
when fallen over my cheeks,
a butterfly flapping its wings,
touched the soil between my fingers;
that was just above the grass,
kissing the bright light, in the rhapsody of strings.
I hope one day,
As the story's being told,
there will be a bard,
to whom the listener told,
this dream to touch the sky,
when lingering off the ground;
I hope there's a consoler,
for the tears of the poet, profound.
© Supriya Baranwal
but so may I speak.
Floating over the water,
looking through the clouds,
the Sun's ray, leaked.
Then a sudden,
when fallen over my cheeks,
a butterfly flapping its wings,
touched the soil between my fingers;
that was just above the grass,
kissing the bright light, in the rhapsody of strings.
I hope one day,
As the story's being told,
there will be a bard,
to whom the listener told,
this dream to touch the sky,
when lingering off the ground;
I hope there's a consoler,
for the tears of the poet, profound.
© Supriya Baranwal
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