Thursday, 20 December 2012

Ode to an Empty Wall

It was difficult, believe me, to love you without knowing you;
Everyone said, you loved me but, I never got a word from you;
Then, there are those who swore of their love for you;
And swore that you love them too;
I wanted you for my own, with me, in me, for ever;

That was before I met her,
She had spent days on road just to catch a glimpse of her lover;
Her hair was matted and clothes torn, tears streaked her dirty cheeks and my heart broke;
For I knew I could not be her and my love was not that strong.

I took down your picture from the wall across the bed to clean;
The glass was dirty. I took it off;
Next, I looked at the frame, the varnish was patchy and the paint tarnished,
I threw it away;
I the eyes that looked at me were someone else's imagination,
The love in them was for the person who had painted them.
I stashed it away as well.

I stared now at the wall across the bed, it was pale yellow with peeling paintwork;
I stared at the emptiness inside the dusty outline where your picture once hung.
I closed my eyes, hoping to reconstruct you in my mind but could not;
I panicked thinking I had lost you.

Then, eyes wide open, I looked at the wall, the dark patch had vanished;
Someone had painted over it.
The wall was smooth, bright and spotless.
I cried in joy and laughed out loud;
For on that empty wall I had found you - at last.

The Vanishing Face of Gala, Salvador DalĂ­

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