By Deeksha Makhija
what happens to words
when they are left unread all their lives?
Do they sob in tears
while remembering the tears of their creators?
Do they talk?
What happens to all those books
that are kept at the
end of a room full of books’ stacks?
Do they smell
of some dust
that takes someone
to the 17th or 18th or 19th century?
Where does one go
when someone picks up
a book full of dust
that had been under lots of papers for 70 years
and carries the smell of
of the partition of India?
Or maybe that book
had been last touched by some historian
and it carries the smell
of all those places
it had been taken to?
if there are still some
that are left unread
and tell the tales
of her midnight dreams
or maybe how she was a poem in herself?
Maybe like the poem that i’m writing now?
Maybe she was like this poem,
full of question marks and no full stops.
A Spoken word Artist, who loves to collide words with words. Deeksha is often found constantly looking into eyes, and diving into them. A part time alien and a part time human being, who is called a weirdo by her sister.
Talking to strangers and later writing them letters is her way of staying happy. You will see her smiling whenever she spots soft kitties drinking milk, music in the middle of noise, and clouds when they are about to drizzle.