By Deeksha Makhija


I wonder

what happens to words

when they are left unread all their lives?

Do they sob in tears

while remembering the tears of their creators?

Do they talk?

What happens to all those books

that are kept at the

end of a room full of books’ stacks?

Do they smell

of some dust

that takes someone

to the 17th or 18th or 19th century?

Where does one go

when someone picks up

a book full of dust

that had been under lots of papers for 70 years

and carries the smell of

of the partition of India?

Or maybe that book

had been last touched by some historian

and it carries the smell

of all those places

it had been taken to?

I wonder

if there are still some

Dickinson’s words

that are left unread

and tell the tales

of her midnight dreams

or maybe how she was a poem in herself?

Maybe like the poem that i’m writing now?

Maybe she was like this poem,

full of question marks and no full stops.



A Spoken word Artist, who loves to collide words with words. Deeksha is often found constantly looking into eyes, and diving into them. A part time alien and a part time human being, who is called a weirdo by her sister.

Talking to strangers and later writing them letters is her way of staying happy. You will see her smiling whenever she spots soft kitties drinking milk, music in the middle of noise, and clouds when they are about to drizzle.

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