It appears like a meek purple house,
not much diverse than others on the lane;
its inhabitants are of the weird ones,
not much made up of love.
All window panes are half-broken, softly embraced by
frightening shadows and hands holding guns-
Is this the purple house of spirits?
It is an abode of redemption for unworldly defied,
eavesdropped to the silent music far from the trenches,
they sing within this caged grave,
though those eerie sufferers lost everything in war.
“Escape” “Escape” “The troop is near”!
I see meanders of midpoint stellar plain,
the chasers who often wander sightlessly till
discovering an entry verge by
crossing brooks and cardamom hills,
into the purple house of spirits.
Passages are lean and narrow,
behind teak doors and purple walls
provoked the bullets into the flesh
and snatched away the fuzzy golden doorbells of peace.
“Escape” “Escape” “The troop is near”!
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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