A Dance in Silent Violins

It began
When his floor-tiles cracked
Assuming shapes of broken dreams
And shades of a spider’s web.
The first shoot was seen – peeping in,
Creeping into his room.
An opening in the center of this crack.
The beginnings of a baby.

He, who lived inside the room
Or, perhaps,
He, over and above whom the room spread
Jubilated, celebrated, witnessed
A breakthrough called life
In his solemn room
Of claustrophobic shadows.

The plant grew up along with his fingernails.
It bore hearts ’stead of leaves
Each of which would beat day-long.
Night-long.
Like hairs on the child’s head
They grew in size and numbers.
He, who lived in its music
Learnt to dance with the heartbeats.

He counted in the mornings
He counted in the nights
The hearts in the plant.
He was the shepherd of heartbeats.

He counted, one night
Ninety-nine hearts in the grown-up tree
An anticipation of morning disturbed his sleep
Night-long.
The hundredth heart but, never grew.
He lost many a sleeps
He lost many a dreams
He lost many an insomnias
The hundredth heart but, never grew.
The tree of ninety-nine hearts kept beating
Whispering, singing, screaming.

As he learnt to cry
The teardrops rolled down his cheek
The teardrops rolled down to its root
Then,
Tentacles came out of each heart
Tentacles came out of every.
Tentacles made way on his ceilings
Tentacles made way on the walls
Tentacles dripped head in his cold soup
Tentacles dripped head in his pillow
Tentacles ran right though his torn skin
Tentacles ran right into his blood.
Tentacles went and touched his nerve cells
Tentacles went and touched his heart.

The shepherd of heartbeats counted
And the hundredth heart was found
On the plant. Beating.