A shilling life will give you all the facts:
How Father beat him, how he ran away,
What were the struggles of his youth, what acts
Made him the greatest figure of his day;
Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,
Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea;
Some of the last researchers even write
Love made him weep his pints like you and me.

With all his honours on, he sighed for one
Who, say astonished critics, lived at home;
Did little jobs about the house with skill
And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still
Or potter round the garden; answered some
Of his long marvellous letters but kept none.

Seeing you today was like
the weather at this moment.
The sun was shining, but
rained poured lightly from
the sky above.. and I never
expected the rain to fall
while the sun was bright*

- G.f.S.

"If the truth can't be found through love, wherever it might be, it doesn't interest me"*

incessantly still
discontinuous
I will fall without name
I will fall into the restlessness
of your thigh

I will build my home
in the gratitude
of your palms

I dreamed these words
instead of you
one night
like any night

I will let go
of counting the hours
the faces, the tears
white corollas
sudden transformations

I have seagulls in my mornings
I have words of you
and the shores of memories
there’s you crumbling in my place
passion’s hidden crimes

I shake out the night
from my hair
and you are still there
to teach me
why

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after, that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the god that made him for the colour of his hair.

Wait; don’t pull the sheets, just yet
Give me a moment to breathe, to let the last tear fall
A broken heart still lies on an unmade bed

Let the smoke clear of the red stained cigarette
It’s funny, how even in daylight, a whisper darkens all
Wait; don’t pull the sheets, just yet

What is love, if not an exciting game of roulette?
Time played its hand; better place a bet, fate now holds the ball
A broken heart still lies on an unmade bed

To be fair, it wasn’t all blood, tears and sweat
Who was the winner who was the loser? It was far too close to call
Wait; don’t pull the sheets, just yet

Tell me, would I be easy, to write off as a love lost; to forget
Or do you, like me, spend sleepless nights, for a late night phone call
A broken heart still lies on an unmade bed

Don’t close your eyes, there isn’t much to regret
I’m not ready yet, to release my breath; for the curtain call
Wait; don’t pull the sheets, just yet
A broken heart still lies on an unmade bed

-പ്രിയാന്ഷി ദാസ്‌