Anatomy of a newborn winter

Ananya Aneja, India

Honey Dipped Sun/ Gerbera daisy embroidered sky/ Wind marinated cheeks/ Turkish songs Tenderly held hostage in playlists/ Billboards tired of standing all day long/ Trees combing their hair before bed/ Brown eyes squinted like the nipples on breasts/ Bergamot scent in condensed air/ Tolls with children screaming for candies in tightly packed cars/ A November evening dying to reach the nape of newborn soft winter/ Paper planes trying to imitate seagulls/ Phone camera a little shaky as the tyres rub over speed breakers/ Flickering street lights as their night shift is starting to begin/ Notepads resembling to sun's bathing soap/ War museums seeming like lit candy shops offering sweet pain/ Eye sockets with fading hazel brown pool/ Half open windows and freshly baked pumpkin pie/ Zebra crossing as if the seaweed on rice cakes/ Mahmood Darwish's poems knitting the scratched back of my lips/ Kittens finding a refuge under car bonnets/ My mother's stitches starting to stretch/ Drawing unicorns on dewed mirrors/ Seals of love letters losing gum/ A sandcastle left alone on the shore turning barren slowly/ Huts with lanterns hung outside/ Metro stations abandoned with last passengers playing raw voice notes/ Sunflowers bowing their heads in honour of moon/ A strand of eyelash resting like an unfulfilled desire on cheek/ Simple poems turning intense as the cold night falls in/ Lovers parting to their ways with a longing of one more hug/ Dandruff ridden trees on threshold of hair fall/ Kitchens starting to echo with jingles of anklets and bangles/ Lads counting coins before the departure of cotton candy hawker/ Light forgetting rectilinear propagation and entering my grandma's corroding attic/ Summer dressing up her dolls in satin gowns and furry shawls/ Spring braiding her hair with daisy in it's nooks/ Autumn falling a little more for gravity/ And winters writing stories about mighty architectures carrying hollow shrines.

Ananya is a fervent poetess in high school. Her love for poetry has been eternal, and she started knitting poems when she was merely 8. Arabic architecture, the Moon, Bohemian dreamcatchers and Istanbul are her eternal muse. She was awarded as the writer of they year by UK world records and has several feathers on her hats. It is her and her diaries agains the bustling world.