Dear Antonio,

 

It was on some fortunate day

that you decided to wrap your fingers

around a violin and weave

a wreath of jasmine flowers:

a composition on the month of May.

 

It has often kept me up

way past the midnight hour

and I have very nonchalantly hummed

all the licks and the riffs

that have lingered

in the back of my throat

like something extremely sour.

 

I don’t understand music like you did,

and probably never will

but, the one thing my little soiree

in Punjab has taught me

is that Spring is something we feel

on the nodes of our fingers:

the pollen that gets into my nails,

and the corners of our lips:

the sap that drips as I chew a basil leaf,

and the curve of our hips:

the blades of grass that pierce

my beloved’s skin as she sits

on them to read Wordsworth to me.

 

Roses bloom the same

in both our corners of the world

and songbirds here

hum the same melodies

as the songbirds there.

 

I imagine you writing

what you wrote

while watching a pair of guileless pygmies

chasing each other

at the bank of a formidable river,

jumping across the all-seeing rocks

and occasionally catching up with each other,

only for the woman to smile and run further

away from the bewitched gentleman

which then leads to a brief altercation

reminiscent of the high and low notes

that you placed in alternation.

 

Spring to you is what it is to me

and thankfully, when the Sun is covered

by the greying clouds of December

and the songbirds have all retired

to the insides of barky trees,

I can revisit it through you.

 

Thank you.

 

Dhruv Trehan is an eighteen-year-old from Punjab pursuing his undergraduate degree in Literature from Ramjas College, North Campus, Delhi University. When he’s not studying, or writing cheesy poetry, he spends his time working as a freelance content writer and participating in poetry slams.