We don’t think much
about the slope of a mountain
carrying on about its duty: accommodating
a pile of frayed leaves
buried in the shade of the sun
to bleach into colorlessness,
a past scent, its remnant relic,
as history books describe events.
We wander, moment-to-moment,
slipping; then re-ordering the chaos.
It’s like a number of porticoes
are aligned in parallel fashions.
But some ancient thirst governs
the shape of our soul —
we learn from a deer that stops
to quench its thirst upon the face of a lake,
there are healing stars out at night,
though the journey is long in miles —
my beloved, I think we must pause
to record what the moon-goddess whispers,
in a language of stairs to the sky.
— Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Sneha straddles paths from linear and discursive lines. Ghettos, immigrants, nations, untold refugee tales, the manufacturing of otherness and writing from the margins are some subject matters of resonance. Her work is forthcoming in Fallujah Magazine, 7X20 mag, Erstwhile Magazine, Sahitya Akademi, Noble/ Gas Qtrly, Epigraph Magazine and the first print anthology of Peacock Journal. She is a GREAT scholarship awardee pursuing her second postgraduate degree in literature in the United Kingdom. Write to her at firstname.lastname@example.org