Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share Shadows and Smoke
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
Shadows and Smoke
Either the sun is broken,
or someone has stolen it.
The feeling of comfort,
of warmth,
is rare these days.
I find myself longing
for the shades of summer,
where shadows of people
and things
made the world more real.
Now, mists have taken over—
the views from my windows,
a magical backdrop
for dreamy photos.
I took a walk
in the misty rain,
its tender touch
washing away the paths,
erasing old impressions.
Misty drops clung
to bare branches,
sparkling like crystals
from a realm of quiet magic.
In the silence,
I heard the sound of mists
battling the light breeze,
a pleasing symphony,
until the silence shattered
by a passing plane.
My mind snapped back
to harsh reality,
to the memory
of a landing plane
where many souls
were taken away.
I imagine their relief—
the hope of reaching,
of arrival—
stolen in cruel waves
of burning fire.
All their stories,
their hopes,
their dreams—
vanished in the smoke,
a fading echo
in the sky.
My heart sobs,
but still throbs
with the pain I imagine—
the ache in the souls
of those left behind,
their love still burning,
their grief a shadow
that feels more real
than the sun.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe
By Urva
I started writing about the misty weather we have last few days of this month. I said to my husband, is the sun broken or someone broke it.
This was my initial thought to write about it but when we had this conversation and saw the news of a South Korean plane crash where 179 souls were taken away.
When I was writing my raw thoughts all these words came in sequence as it is written in the poem.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe
View all episodes
By Urva PatelEither the sun is broken,
or someone has stolen it.
The feeling of comfort,
of warmth,
is rare these days.
I find myself longing
for the shades of summer,
where shadows of people
and things
made the world more real.
Now, mists have taken over—
the views from my windows,
a magical backdrop
for dreamy photos.
I took a walk
in the misty rain,
its tender touch
washing away the paths,
erasing old impressions.
Misty drops clung
to bare branches,
sparkling like crystals
from a realm of quiet magic.
In the silence,
I heard the sound of mists
battling the light breeze,
a pleasing symphony,
until the silence shattered
by a passing plane.
My mind snapped back
to harsh reality,
to the memory
of a landing plane
where many souls
were taken away.
I imagine their relief—
the hope of reaching,
of arrival—
stolen in cruel waves
of burning fire.
All their stories,
their hopes,
their dreams—
vanished in the smoke,
a fading echo
in the sky.
My heart sobs,
but still throbs
with the pain I imagine—
the ache in the souls
of those left behind,
their love still burning,
their grief a shadow
that feels more real
than the sun.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe
By Urva
I started writing about the misty weather we have last few days of this month. I said to my husband, is the sun broken or someone broke it.
This was my initial thought to write about it but when we had this conversation and saw the news of a South Korean plane crash where 179 souls were taken away.
When I was writing my raw thoughts all these words came in sequence as it is written in the poem.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thepoeticbrush.substack.com/subscribe