Wound
by Ananya S. Guha / October 26th, 2025
I have seen mists
of colours but hues
always bring memories,
even when these pine clad
hills are sleeping
and many waiting to be born.
Stop, pause
there is a song everywhere
even rag pickers listen
and these aerodyne slopes
of mountains.
I pick up the pen
and scribble on wounds.
Who says memories are old?
they rejuvenate in every pausing
moment and a flower escapes hurt.
A wound.
Out there guns are firing
threatening dreams in cascade
of fire. Burn Ukraine burn,
I will lift mists from your eyes;
tears draped in greyish sadness.
Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in North East India, where he was born and brought up. He has been writing and publishing his poetry for the last forty years. His poetry has been published in both electronic and print formats such as: Indian Literature, Other Voices, Osprey Journal, Glasgow Review, The Literary Nest, Up The Staircase, Asia Writes, Art Arena, Praxis Online, Muse India, Your One Phone Call, In Between Hangovers, The Peeking Cat Magazine, Post Colonial Text among others. He has also written widely on educational and social matters. He has ten collections of poetry and his poetry has been anthologized in various collections of Indian poetry in English. He holds a doctoral on the novels of William Golding.
Read other articles by Ananya S..
This article was posted on Sunday, October 26th, 2025 at 8:00am and is filed under Poetry.
