There could be a quiet, an absolute pristine stillness around,
Yet if you look hard enough and deep within - a storm could be found.
So accustomed to the stormy sea, oblivious of another reality.
An existence could be breathing, surviving, smiling and yet not be alive,
In the incubator of a masquerade it would dance and thrive.
A cyclone stronger than the pent up storm would unleash a world unexplored,
Wrapped up, packed away emotions would then erupt and explode.
The newness of it all would dazzle so bright and the music would be playing so loud,
The Tango, the jazz and dizziness from all the dances - would everything cloud.
The music would eventually peter out, the dancers would tire too,
They'd look down at their sore feet and their pounding hearts now feel a little blue.
Their gaze would dart across the room, in search of a stronger storm zone,
It would be the opium to recover from the aftermath of the last cyclone.
The pairs of feet would go round the floor in trance again, trying to keep pace,
Some would find the dizzy harmony, some would give up the space.
Some would retract, excuse themselves and pause,
Reflect on the dependence on the storm, it's intrinsic cause.
They'd stand and observe the others - the victims and accomplices of the storm,
See their own reflections too, and decide to get back into form.
They'd shut the gates of the frenzied dancers room,
Lightning,thunder, downpours and leave the black clouds to loom.
They'd walk out, look up at the skies and also deep within,
Choose in silence - a peace, a quiet - a happiness - a win.
The skies would clear, the storms would be long gone,
It would be a peaceful stark honest new dawn.
You could use many a storm as a merry-go-round,
Yet they'd always be just an amusement park, a playground.
You will have to set sail for home one day, as your wisdom would grow
Be honest to yourself, listen to your heart - it would always know.
Sanchita Johri
