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poetry story

Language of History- A poem

I met this girl who made me believe that earth is round and it indeed moves around its axis. I was looking through the tinted glass, rain pouring like flowers in spring air – utter melancholy, here and there.

She came to me, asked for what I want, that girl with blue eyes and purple lips; hair as red as sun and hands so pale, like she never knew light, avoiding the sun; the way lovers avoid trauma bound conversations.

History dripped from her words; a dialect I never heard of. For you, natural instinct might be to correct the pronunciation.
However, I kept listening to her. She showed me different types of coffee, and asked me to choose one, as it’s cold and romantic. I have no preferences in coffee, cold is a feeling that reminds me of life and romance? I’m a hopeless romantic.
I asked her to choose one instead, then she  assured me to be back with a coffee made by love for the lover.

I was still lost in translation, vernacular is bliss. Like love can only be described best in the mother tongue; her words seemed to be as old as time.
I am no philologist yet I’m stuck in time, trying to make sense of history.

She served me as-it-is: the words of generations, which she said her father had taught her, for her mother was too busy trying to birth a boy. The words which surely stay the same with tingling aroma of coffee.

By Kajal

Hello there, Kajal here! I started blogging in September, 2018. It was purely random as I needed a space to pour my heart and thoughts out. This place is like my safe heaven where I let my fingers and feelings run free to curate poems and to rant about things that are bothering my thoughts. My journey here has been bittersweet and wonderful at the same time. But because of all the love I receive here, I keep coming back to read and to write.You all have been great support and advicers to me and I'm really grateful. Your feedback, emails and comments keep the mermaid inside me going :)

29 replies on “Language of History- A poem”

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