Sermons of the Sirens

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We, all of us, create walls around us. Some imaginary, some real: walls that, over time, take the form of a maze, trapping us, so that even when we want to escape from these “comfort zones” of our damnation we remain trapped, unable to find the way out. Our desperation fuelling us to run in eternal circles – our lives reduced to journeys that are all signposts and no destinations. 

It is rarely, if ever, that we come across words that filter through the walls of our creation. Words, that can, by some divine ordain, hear our whispers of damnation. Words, that reach out to touch, to transform. Words, like water that over millions of years cut through the rocks to create the Grand Canyons of the mind; words that metamorphose into the triumph of the soul, over the walls of the make-belief.

Somolekha’s poems have that lilting quality. The quality of somehow hearing the desperate yells of your innermost self, yells that dare not pass your lips even as whispers. Her words can, for she speaks of feelings that few can fathom, fewer still relate to. Her words have a strange quality that is part embalming, part empathy – like the siren song of some mythical Goddess who has words for tresses – the wild, angry crop, like the wonder overcast skies, that holds the rainbow in its bosom.

Read her. Not all walls are worth keeping.  

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