Written by Aryan Bhalla.
Graphic by Quynhmai Tran.

As I stand by my windowsill in ode

As I stand by my windowsill in ode
To the fairies of dark symphonies above
I sit, breathe you out
You I cannot see
You I cannot describe
Your love I always breathe
But your love I cannot revive.
As I stand here, thanking the heavens that
Created you
I stand
Not with you,
But I stand tonight
Alone I stand tonight,
Marveling at my fortune
Flummoxed by your magnanimity
In my happiness
And your gravity in my depravity.
I thank the supreme maker who created you
I thank the wretched, empty devil who stole you
I will stand by our side tonight
I will stand
Until the bright light by my windowsill
Envelops us.

Walls

They see so much, these walls.
They know
Me more than I do
They know more than you and I ever could,
They see
Stare at them closely,
Maybe you’ll see them stare at you.
They sit, these walls
They, like us, most silent,
Know the most, yet they don’t say anything.
They can keep a few secrets, these walls.
They can keep you and me too.
They have our memories, these walls.
They know you too.
It’s as if He made them to be close to us, these walls,
Because walls have eyes too.

Will the nightingale sing for me

Will the nightingale sing for me?
Does she see me long for sweet, luscious ingenuity,
Or ache for a lasting symphony?
Does she sway with the cadence of the notes hidden in fanatical fallacy
Or does she flail her wings and find beauty in ‘mireless agony?
At rest all day, at peace all night,
Always she sings to me,
My sweet nightingale.
Had I possessed a voice so tender
And a note so sweet
A faraway splendor,
Or holding through a tinge of ordinance beneath
You and I would make our own melody,
My sweet little nightingale.

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