Call, by Vishnu Selva
Moonlight, the Sun’s sparing grace, illuminates this humble patch of land you left me on. Bathed in heaven’s waning sympathy, I wait, religiously, in this lonely place, for you, my kin, who still traverse the mortal realm. I wait, with the offerings you left at my decaying feet; white jasmines.
The wind carries my faint but relentless calls, a haunting, a sweeping scent as light as a feather, stretching further than my phantom arms pinned under this tomb you carved for me.
Under the peaceful gaze of the night, the jasmines’ scent will reach you, tickling your senses. An eruption of goosebumps, a chime of recognition; I am still here. This scent — my call — will guide you in my direction. You will finally see me; your past, your regrets, your nightmares.
So, turn. I am waiting.