KAVISAMAYA

 

Kavisamaya

At 5:30, the city still dreams.
The air is young with silence,
and our steps begin softly—
two silhouettes moving through half-light,
between night’s hush and morning’s breath.

In our ears, poets awaken.
Their voices drift through the quiet—
each syllable a ripple in the dawn.
We listen—
to their poems, their pauses,
their laughter folded into lines,
their worlds unfolding like light through mist.

They speak of rivers that remember,
of time that forgets,
of how an ordinary morning
can hold the weight of eternity.
We walk slower,
as if afraid to step on a metaphor.

The road becomes a verse,
the wind a listener.
Even the sparrows pause
as language rearranges the air.

We are no longer walking for the body—
it is the mind that stretches,
the heart that learns to breathe again.

In this hour,
we are not husband and wife,
but two quiet pilgrims
inside the temple of thought.

By the time the sun spills gold
over sleeping rooftops,
the poets have taken their leave.
Only their echoes remain—
soft, invisible,
like prayer that lingers
after it’s been said.

Kavisamaya—
the time when poems walk beside us,
and listening becomes
its own kind of worship.