We are not defined by age
Or by glory or the strange silver linings
Just a song that is ineffaceable, would do.
Your song, Maestro.
And today, as I walked in the rain
I smelled the petrichor of earthy geosmin
What mycelial actinobacteria had secreted
To define the unique convergence
Of two elements – water and earth
Movement and stillness.
Music and silence.
Stranded on “petrichor”, I try to come up with
A better word to define you and I fail miserably.
And as I gaze at the inter-monsoons
I smell the fragrance of that old man down the road
Who walks with a limp and greets
Me with a soulful “good evening”.
And in that instant, I remember the fragrance of your song
Compounded to a miraculous synesthesia
Which stays with you even after the rainfalls have ceased.
Petrichor will be your legacy – The raindrops that pitter-patter
And makes a little chemistry an endearment,
Just like your memory falling from vinyl reels
Of yesteryear, while we surrender to our
Irrepressible emotions – our chemical monsoons –
Percolating out. Saudade, will always be
A bittersweet melancholy for the grieving chamber.
And your petrichor will stand tall on this
Small isle of ours, remedying ailing hearts
Who will keep on pining for your yesteryear
In tomorrow’s song.