An Old Inkpot

Beneath the warmth of Sun, I found this old inkpot lying on floor, half-empty, half-dry,

Which forgotten story its ink had written, maybe having a funny end, or perhaps left on a cry?

As this tale is unknown, let’s believe it to be the unsaid love story associated with eyes,

The pairs of which would have drowned in each-other hours before this day had rise.

Innocent eyes didn’t know that in dark they would find relief in an unknown sight,

Slowly and slowly their meeting begins with the stranger eyes in a stranger night.

In the moonlight lay the fear of the world for which the interaction couldn’t complete,

The Moon was then veiled, so eyes stop seeing; now allowing their unseen souls to meet.

Eyes searching for a destination for long didn’t realise that their souls would find it in just a row,

Let the moment be lived, no matter whether it was an eternal season of love, or it would simply go.

After swimming in passing air of moment, the lullabies of silence calmed night to peaceful sleep,

The ink in inkpot might have dried carving this tale till morning, that’s all that at the moment I believe.

Aashish Kochhar