A Poila Boishakh Reverie
Crimson curtains inhale the first light of Poila Boishakh,
A quiet pause before the city remembers how to celebrate.
She sits draped in silk that carries echoes of old rivers,
Gold ornaments murmuring softly against her skin.
A vinyl record spins between memory and moment,
Its crackle stitching past rituals into the present.
Marigolds rest beside fading melodies,
While her eyes hold stories no year can erase.
A rose blooms gently in her hands—
Not just a flower, but a promise of beginnings.
Her smile tastes of sweetness and distant rain,
A language felt deeper than words can reach.
Beneath woven carpets of heritage and time,
She becomes both Goddess and grounded soul.
The tiger beside her breathes quiet strength,
Guarding the courage it takes to begin again.
Boishakh arrives not in noise, but in presence—
In the fall of her saree, in the stillness of her gaze.
In the silent vow of renewal,
And the fierce tenderness of belonging.
