Read Poetry by Anannya Uberoi

We move as wild birds, swiftly,

but not failing to stop and recoup

the vast expanse that clears above us-

the sky moving westward,

making room to hold in it

both full- one waning in its leftover gold

the other reclaiming its voluminosity

a strange concurrence of two lights

set upon the moving dome.

The spruce bearing its wood pines

among silent trees in a restless rustle-

as if mimicking the old whitewater

that runs miles below the

tremendous mountains, in a low, muffled harmonic

we gladly tune into;

and quaint birds chanting age-old

wind-age trapped in cracks of tree barks

and curvatures of stones that turn sharply

as we climb- they say the higher you climb

the deeper you go;  the more you hear,

the more you know.

Lung ta prayer flags strung upon shiny mountain ridges,

call for a different breed of peace- five colours

dyed on thin…