Icicles point accusingly at pot plants frozen stiff. I meant to bring them inside- winter came too soon!' - Mary H. Sowell
The Shadorma is a poetic form consisting of a six-line stanza (or sestet). The form is alleged to have originated in Spain.
Each stanza has a syllable count of three syllables in the first line, five syllables in the second line, three syllables in the third and fourth lines, seven syllables in the fifth line, and five syllables in the sixth line (3/5/3/3/7/5) for a total of 26 syllables.
Do you know that PLAFOND means an ornately decorated ceiling.
✓Use the word PLAFOND in a sentence. ✓Post in the comments section.
We all have our own stories and we all want to occupy the main seat there. Some stories walk towards horizon, go afar from you. Some remain being a bystander. Some absorb bitterness and set themselves free whenever we narrate them. Sometimes we don’t tell a story but the story itself does tell about us. They stand beside the time, watch a show, breathe, sigh and lastly, smile. Looking up at the sky and then at us, they smile.
I live in a town, mundane. And here, the colour of euphoria is grey. We breathe particles of carbon. we chase the feeling of pleasing a stranger and don’t wave hands at an old pal. Here, the alcohol tastes better, mixed with tears of agony that nobody wants to listen to. We all have our own stories.
I live in a town, disdained. Here, stories are born at night and they die in the mornings. Again, they reincarnate at gloomy nighttime, sited by the Citylights. The citylights see the stories being born, dead. The stories have their stories of birth and death, peace and piece that the citylights narrate.
Hannah lives at sidewalk, under the shade of a supermarket, with her mother. It had always been hard for her to raise a daughter, alone. Hannah sees the starry sky, sometimes the milky way with her widely opened eyes. She dreams. The tears of her mother caress those dreams. They are afraid of being left behind. But again she dreams, she wanders. On cloudy nights she sees the citylights instead of stars. The serene lights see her too, her dreams. Hannah sleeps well on rainy nights and wakes up with clang of a coin onto their aluminium plate.
Rin stays up late at night. The silence eats him up. He misses the melody of his piano. He wanted to be a pianist but his father wants him to be a doctor. Art really never was welcomed in his family. They adore digits and diagrams, rates and ratios. Rin remembers in detail when for the last time he performed amidst people, clapping for him. Lights, covering him up. He, drenched in tears of joy, sweat of pride and heavy breaths of hope. But that seemed a dream. And he is awake now. From his window sill he sees the citylights. They look alike the spot lights. The noisy cars talks like excited layman and so he plays. The piano. The citylights see him playing the piano, with his teary eyes.
Sia’s mother hopes. She hopes a lot, prays a lot. It has been years and since she saw Sia, playing, calling her mother out. She tells her fine stories every night. Sia sleeps well, in a world of half mortality. Her mother hopes she would be calling her soon. She hopes she would wake up, be back from the realm, doctors call it ‘coma’. Every second is hope, she counts onto. Every citylight is a witness. They pray with her.
Nanami laughs like there is no tomorrow. But the alcohol of joy and gesture of strangers seem lifeless to her. She plays her part at parties, kisses like adorable blood sucker and craves for home like a refugee. She says her stories are different even the citylights don’t know the whole. She writes letters with smoke to her long lost lover. She leaves some letters unsent, inside the ashtray. She leaves her heart on the floor. Burning the love in between her lips, she let the death count how much she lived. She made her choice not to love, anymore. But someday, she breaks it. She breaks it with a cheer of glass and loves a bit more heartbreakingly, on the lap of booze. The citylights kiss her face like wind and stroke her hair.
I live with them, in a town, dull and mundane. We share the same sky but different rain; same stars but different wishes; same dark nights but different abysses. We see the same citylights but with different stories in our eyes.