The Ruby Listens
The ruby listens to you. It listens to you when you say, “I want to remember the picture. I want to remember the summer rain. I want to be born again.” It listens to you when your wounds become blossoms and thirst for the Burmese rain. It hears the first birds of spring, the first surge of dawn and the first words of love. It gently lifts them from the fragrant air and holds them in its crimson heart.
It listens to the rustle of sheets, the disrobing of spring and the sound of gentle goodbyes lingering in the gothic halls of memory. It remembers the words that hang like stalactites in your mind-words that touch your lips and escape in the windowless morning, devoid of light. In Love’s spectacular gradient, it hears sweet nothings and tomorrows that have been brushed aside. It hears the ache in the secret congregations of the heart and silently listens to the melody of unfathomable distance separating lovers at high tide.
The Ruby waits with great anxiety to hear footsteps that will walk in parallel lines, never meeting, never on time. It waits on the front steps with you, listening for the arrival of light. The mountains, the houses, the sea and all the hushed voices of eternity dissolve in the crimson Ruby.
When the air is dry and you fall on the grass, the Ruby listens to the heavy breathing of your heart. It listens to the stirring hunger of your lips and in the metrics of Love; it listens to the sound of fiery flames leaping above.
The Ruby listens to all the sounds in the chambers of your heart. It listens to your silence among the beach stones, weathered boards, sorrows and before the sun or the fog enters your eyes, it has already heard the crescendo of your sighs.
As you walk back home in the glow of the lonely road, the Ruby has already heard your steps, way before. The sky for once turns ruby-pink as the Ruby listens to everything. It breaks the Ruby’s heart when you murmur, “It could have been.”
It hears the mad monk prophesying: “Behold the first rays of the rising Indian sun. From the blood of your beloved a red Burmese Ruby will be born. Until you find your love, the Ruby will remain forlorn.”
The Ruby aches to listen to the sound of true love. It aches to see the land where it joins the roaring sea. It waits patiently to catch a glimpse of Love as it emerges from a sea of rubies.
Till then it listens very patiently to you and me.
© Jaspreet Mann. A Sea of Rubies. All Rights Reserved.
The ruby listens to you. It listens to you when you say, “I want to remember the picture. I want to remember the summer rain. I want to be born again.” It listens to you when your wounds become blossoms and thirst for the Burmese rain. It hears the first birds of spring, the first surge of dawn and the first words of love. It gently lifts them from the fragrant air and holds them in its crimson heart.
It listens to the rustle of sheets, the disrobing of spring and the sound of gentle goodbyes lingering in the gothic halls of memory. It remembers the words that hang like stalactites in your mind-words that touch your lips and escape in the windowless morning, devoid of light. In Love’s spectacular gradient, it hears sweet nothings and tomorrows that have been brushed aside. It hears the ache in the secret congregations of the heart and silently listens to the melody of unfathomable distance separating lovers at high tide.
The Ruby waits with great anxiety to hear footsteps that will walk in parallel lines, never meeting, never on time. It waits on the front steps with you, listening for the arrival of light. The mountains, the houses, the sea and all the hushed voices of eternity dissolve in the crimson Ruby.
When the air is dry and you fall on the grass, the Ruby listens to the heavy breathing of your heart. It listens to the stirring hunger of your lips and in the metrics of Love; it listens to the sound of fiery flames leaping above.
The Ruby listens to all the sounds in the chambers of your heart. It listens to your silence among the beach stones, weathered boards, sorrows and before the sun or the fog enters your eyes, it has already heard the crescendo of your sighs.
As you walk back home in the glow of the lonely road, the Ruby has already heard your steps, way before. The sky for once turns ruby-pink as the Ruby listens to everything. It breaks the Ruby’s heart when you murmur, “It could have been.”
It hears the mad monk prophesying: “Behold the first rays of the rising Indian sun. From the blood of your beloved a red Burmese Ruby will be born. Until you find your love, the Ruby will remain forlorn.”
The Ruby aches to listen to the sound of true love. It aches to see the land where it joins the roaring sea. It waits patiently to catch a glimpse of Love as it emerges from a sea of rubies.
Till then it listens very patiently to you and me.
© Jaspreet Mann. A Sea of Rubies. All Rights Reserved.