She wished to become a light mist
to wrap the Earth in its pristine wisdom,
to overarch the earthbound canopies
which reminds her so much of the fortunate fall.
Wisdom spurs the soil with its patient hoof
it trots and gallops through the windowpanes;
masquerading as a friendly ghost
for a carelessly careful whisper “are you in?”
And often, in faraway lands when air strikes boom
or cities are haunted by plague
and they curse the soil for all the mischiefs
would you not say “I've been the light mist
that had a fortunate fall?”
And the rest is history.
The rest could fit some bite-size columns of newspapers.
Many a times she has evaporated,
Merged within elements and eavesdropped.
So they talk about boredom, chronic ulcer,
dreams small and big,
and above all they want Freedom.
And Freedom, it sells quick-
for it is discounted (compromised- to use the jargon).
They've squeezed her, to extract some essential oil
Essential to each ego, each purpose,
as if she's the generic name of a common medicine.
As if she's a Paracetamol.
Her metamorphosis is no mystery,
she's that quintessence of an ethereal drop,
that unearthly essence which simply had a fortunate fall,
and the rest became history.
Bipasha Haque is a diaspora writer with particular interest in life-the way it is. By profession she is a university teacher.