Panchatatva: The Song of Nature

i) (FIRE) Of warm soot that sets the bed of your passing, of the celerity of your crackling stride — of your sauntering footsteps synchronised with every heartbeat you touch. The crimson that melts into the orange, the caress that sets ablaze an entire kingdom; I call for thee in times of penance and purity. You dance with the light of the sun that kindles up a bare thatched roof, you dance to the rhythm of a thousand suns’ warmth. You are the very ardour of my abode on a cold winter night, yet you are everything that breaks me into embers. 

ii) (WATER) The tepid flow of a brook down the boulders, a nomad that meanders along the golden gravel. With many streams I mingle in the shadows, many shores have I unravelled; but when I reach the lap, writhing into the river, the currents of my heart breathe steadily. I am what you call the elixir of life, I am what quenches a land athirst. I reflect to thine, a thousand shades that paint the canvas of the sky, and when in the dark you take a stroll by the banks, I am what reflects the silver brilliance of the moonlight. 

iii) (SPACE) The embers borne to electrifying starburst paint the canvas of an unevenly stained sky. The canvas being the universe and the artist his innumerable sons. They trudge down the cosmic runway, through the ashes of stars and milky lights. Of the suns they meet and the peaks they melt, each artist writes a story for himself, in vivid inks of luminescence.

iv) (AIR) The dulcet night sky that whispers in my ears, the musky scent of the blue brine that wafts in — it’s a shapeless gesture, sculpted into nothingness. It slithers along the creatures of flight and glides across the canopy of greens. With empty words and soundless chimes, it weaves dreams in the bounded asylums of our minds. 

v) (EARTH) She speaks the language of the flower that blooms under the sun. The musky scent of the gentle pitter-patter falling unto her, seeping into her being, welcomes the bird in blue. Through the dim day and the unbecoming night, she sings a lullaby in plight. The roots that channel the surge of my energy come home to her. She is where I breathe, and she is where I rupture. The maiden that nurtured thee, the womb that carried thy giggles and healed thy sorrows, calls out for you in times of need.

Written By Radhika Taneja for MTTN

Featured Image by Akshaya Ramesh for MTTN