The Rising — Abnish Singh Chauhan

Winter fades,
leaving its last chill
in the morning air.
The fields turn golden,
soorajmukhi1 flowers
swaying like little suns.

The doors creak open;
the feet step out hesitantly,
testing the weight
of freedom.
The fear
that once held us
is now just
a whisper in the wind.

The festivals arrive,
but the echoes grow softer—
no social gatherings,
no handshakes,
no gestures without thought.

The breeze carries
old songs,
half-remembered,
half-sung.

Children play cricket,
gently,
delighted
when they catch the ball.

The world moves again,
rising from
the shadows of COVID.

***




Footnote:
1. Soorajmukhi: A name for the sunflower plant.