Snowflake
A sparkle
fell from the
sky, sun-kissed,
lightly falling on
a peak--enveloped
in a sheer layer of
snowy dots. Miniature.
indistinguishable--for how
can a snowflake be seen in
a hilltop of snow? By rolling
into motion, like how ideas can
escape obscurity by aspiring to
become realities. So the snowflake
charts a course down the mountain,
gathering shimmering slivers and dots
of honeydew-hued snow. Ideas are seen
around us, in little ways, without us even
noticing their silent presence. The snowy
sphere enlarges, a powerful entity, defeating
all in its path; obstacles fail to hinder the growth
of the idea. It reaches the bottom--a gargantuan,
glistening orb of snowy wonder, which emerged
from an imperceptible speck of crystallised water.
The idea, once a speck in a vague tangle of memories,
establishes itself in the world, destined to be prime, great,
a rugged, turbulent journey upward having sealed its fate.
Skyscrapers
They hurtle towards the sky, towards the stars,
faster than the speed of thought. Embedding their tips
into the pellucid marshmallow of clouds,
piercing a hole, letting in shafts of golden sun,
allowing light to spill onto the earth.
They allow entire streets to darken; they deny visibility
to those unfortunate people facing away from the sun.
Their metal shards overpower everything else
in humanity's vicinity--they can create the sensation of night,
simply by existing.
They conjure the bliss of warmth, of protection,
by shielding the chilled folk from the glacial breeze
that emanates from the poles of the earth.
They block, confidently and with poise,
the swirls of wind that people strive to avoid.
They magnify the gentle murmurs
of an innocent squall--to twice, thrice in magnitude.
They warp the perception of hearing by forming
a tunnel--through which once innocuous winds
whoosh, dropping the climate by several degrees.
And who creates these formidable creatures? Only that
she will be the most powerful of them all, miles above
the pedestrian, above those dallying on the streets.
She will perch on the summit, the pinnacle
of the city, watch as the ants of people scurry about--
unimportant, inconsequential. She keeps rising, physically
and figuratively, as she climbs up the mountain.
Once she ascends the skyscraper, she stops.
Gazes around, and smiles--knowing that she reduced
humanity to pinpricks. Such is her power,
the power of an architect.
Clamor
They sat at a round table, tense, waiting,
hovering, intangible and pellucid
surrounded by golden clouds and pinking skies
while rain pattered below,
drizzles rumbled as the sky cried.
It rarely rains at this time of the year, over
the Indian subcontinent;
the time of the year when the fumes choke the air,
rising up in menacing swirls, asphyxiating;
golden flares glare at the heavens, blinding,
dotted with softer hues that die in the blaze.
It was a round table, there is no head,
but the leader stood up, edged to the edge of the clouds,
looked down; smiled for a second, waved a silvery arm,
basked in the silence that accompanied the rains,
smiled as the only noise that emanated from the ground
was the wind.
The others applauded, casting admiring glances
at her perspicacity.
But then her smile waned; as if a bomb had burst,
which it had, firecrackers illuminated the chilly night,
curls of smoke embraced the air, the freeze dissipated
as the fire danced in mesmerizing explosions
shaking the fragile clouds, unsettling her balance.
Tears in her eyes, she gripped the edge of the clouds.
The night was blinking mischievously, radiant with energy,
abounding with clamor, delighting in rebellion.
Inconspicuously wiping her eyes, so that the others wouldn't see,
she prayed that the earth would survive this new onslaught,
that she would aspire to preserve her precious life.
Bionote
Richa is a junior at The International School Bangalore, India. An avid poet and writer, Richa has been published in several literary journals, such as New Plains Review, Poetry Quarterly, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine and Tower Journal. She also enjoys being on the editorial board for Glass Kite Anthology, Siblini Arts and Literature Journal, and Polyphony H.S. Richa likes indulging in ice-cream on rainy days and can generally be seen biting a pencil while working on a challenging math problem.
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