Very often I hear a river flowing inside me.
Its water cut into pieces like stones quarried
Before they are made into bridges. 
It sleeps between the roads
That have drifted away
Keeping neither memory nor memorylessness. 

And after crossing thousand galaxies and one star 
It slipped and rose and slipped again.
I kept rolling with it as a moon would, 
Before it sucks up all its light.

It grows in my body,
Faster than soil and lies extinct again—
Like few years back when the birds went silent
As we walked through the clouds,
And walked till we reached the other.

There isn’t any wind today.
My terrace which had been a garden of fireflies 
Now looks like the face of an inverted moon
After you slice it down to the size of a lemon.
I walk alone. It’s the only way to resurrect oneself. 

There’s a park near my house.
It’s my son’s favourite spot to pluck butterflies.
He does that every day as a mason carves out
Stones from the sky before it rains.

We both go there 
And watch the sun slide down his small fingers
Waking the planets up from sleep,
Like the way I nudge him sometimes 
To tell me stories of the lost fireflies. 

And this is how my evening sets in—
With the stories of lost fireflies 
And this is how 
I set myself free every day.