I heard,
it was a red moon
the day you were born
The sky, exalted,
crushed the stars
and spread them
over the black ocean
I heard, two of them
took shelter in your eyes
The day you were born,
the waves inched closer
to the land, to hear
your first cry
The kites swam
against the current
and landed at the door
where your mother
held you singing lullabies
The women in your village rejoiced
“This boy might just break hearts!”
and my gods exchanged nervous glances
The day you were born,
was when somebody
took a quill
and wrote –
“The finest way to feel love
is to never have it.”
Van Gogh sighed
and painted his wheat fields
the colour of your eyes
Neruda smiled
and wrote a song
about people
who felt their most self
when broken in love
Plath woke mid sleep
and for a minute
felt the pain buried in her veins
was something she could
discard like yesterday’s dirt
The day you were born,
was when the universe
wrote multiple deaths to my name
And I?
I took each of them
with mad eyes of a devotee
who wanted to meet
not its creator,
but the star of its damnation;
You!
The day you were born,
was when they wrote my end.
