Freedom

How will it happen?
Would the last breath
Just leave gracefully
Gathering all her robes
And looking around
One last time
At the place that she
Went in and out for
All these years?

The beautiful body
That wore silver anklets
And a velvet blouse
That shivered in the
Dew-kissed cold
Of a sun-kissed town
The hands that wrote
Cooked and cared
The fingers that played
The violin and turned
Pages of poetry books
The slim waistline
Going broader at times
And slimmer again
Long hair bejeweled
With gardenia
So many sighs passed that chest
So many tears passed those eyes
The little breaths
that choked mid-sentence
And gave in, into a
Speechless teary silence
The blushing in love
And flushing in anger
Years of reading
For the poor tired eyes
Ghost stories told
Yet so many ghosts untold
Lurk around in this moment
Let them out.

They are all to be left
For the ones behind
To be given labels
Because the fight goes on
For all the others.
You are Free.

Is it an experience?
How many have you had
When that breath was still within?
The first kiss.
The first slap
Across your face.
The first few rupees
That you earned on your own.
The first humiliation.
And the first redemption.
Birth. Now this.

The beauty is that it
Cannot be told.
It cannot be written down.
Maybe, not even remembered.
As I analyze yours
I look forward to mine.