Porcelain cup

I wondered as I sat

on the handle of Saheb’s porcelain cup

At the verge of sliding in

like the dead bodies from the holocaust

that would swiftly slide in the dug up earth

As if they were destined for it

Sprayed on, plucked, collected

and then finally,

boiled in hot water

until they lose their color

The leaves are trapped

in little paper bags.

They are allowed to move freely

as long as they were in their bags

Slowly they would turn the water brown,

Not like the brown that dirt forms

when mixed with water

Neither like the brown

that Saheb’s black shoes fade into

because of that muddy water

But like the brown elixir

that intoxicates us

and makes us forget.

One teaspoon of sugar

would swiftly swirl a deluge

in the porcelain cup, making it sweet.

And yet, I would sit there

Wondering whether

to either get strained

Or to get dissolved.



I am Asmi, a sixteen year old from Delhi who likes to write-
in peace , in pain
in hope, in vain
in freedom, in chains

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