By
Trivarna Hariharan
Storytellers
I hear a knock on my rusted wooden door as the stars ascend a seamless sky.
It is the storyteller.
He tells me the stories of the night – by the night.
The moon caresses the Orion as I look up to see his verses
paint themselves upon the palms of the clusters that burn themselves out
tearlessly and with ease, everyone now and then.
I close my eyes. To hear the flicker of the sounds and sense the
intangible light that emanates from the entities whose names I have forgotten.
“Collapsed,” he whispers into my ears.
Then when we sit down to see the moon evanesce into a
nebulous fog behind the clouds, leaving the Orion behind, he
tells me how the stars that I see in the sky never wanted to become stars in the
first place.
“They wanted to become the moon. They couldn’t,” he says.
“What could they have become, if not stars, then?” I ask him.
He pauses for a bit before answering.
The rustle of the leaves fills up the solemn stillness of that moment.
“Storytellers,” he says softly.
Almost hums.
Long after he has left, I keep staring at the almost invisible
moon, the gigantic Orion and
the transient stars perched upon the unbroken sky, thinking of the
next verse I’d perhaps write tonight.
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