Huzun [1]

The air shared by a city.
Crumbling, but slowly, like a ruin, a flower—like time.
I speak of the walls, bleak and dreary.
Of memories exhaled at midnight,
and footsteps retraced, every evening
I speak of the beauty in the failure to come home on time,
or to never come home.
I speak of a struggle to persevere through time,
to change,
and rise again.
I speak of accidental sunsets that can never be preserved
of the same faces on a train every morning
of a light switching off at 11:23 pm—every night
I speak of the beauty to feel everything
or nothing at all


Domenico’s Reverie

Can insanity be useful?
I speak, talking out loud, reminiscing—by the window, alone.
What ancestors speak through me?
These myriad feelings flow through me, in light
and in darkness,
where the voices collide
and crash,
like the heart, whose surface is furrowed,
resembling linen, in the early mornings.
There exists between the soul and the mind, a schism.
It bids me farewell, reason.
But the qualm remains still,
and so does the calm.
The schism, it hangs on a thread,
Is sanity inept?
Or insanity adept? I’ll never know.
But the delirium, it will stay home,
and the schism, persevere.

Can dry leaves keep you warm?
“Can dry leaves keep you warm?” I asked myself three years ago on a piece of paper.
I question myself still the same—
A bulbul trapped in a monochrome picture,
an heirloom locked behind the veil,
two cigarettes in a make-up case,
a heart, cloaked in steel.
Will you set them all free?
These dry leaves await the assay,
taste them,
It’s time to start a fire.



While I inhaled the stale air,
reflecting on an October leaf,
.               crumbling
.               wilting
.               and now, dead
I was reminded of her photograph
It was 1997, or ninety eight, perhaps.
With an urge to unearth the relic,
I shuffled through the albums,
resting, in the dusty drawers
.          in the eerie glow of the attic
.          and in the chest—that raised an arm, shielding itself from the blinding light of the day.
It was lost,
but etched in my memory, never to be regained.
Still, bereavement ensued—I wondered why.
Perhaps, it was preparation for something
still to come.




[1] A state of grief and disillusionment in material affairs due to a realization of the essential and existential spiritual void of the human condition.


Manan Kapoor

Manan Kapoor was born in Shimla in 1993. His debut novel, The Lamentations of a Sombre Sky, released in April 2016. His poems have been published in The Stockholm Review of Literature and Spilwords. He graduated from Panjab University in 2015 and is currently pursuing a Masters degree in Literature and Creative Writing at Ambedkar University, Delhi.