Emotional Ruins at Dawn

Some days are like a desert.
Vast and void, boundless and bitter, heavy and hollow.

Some days are like a desert.
Vast and void, boundless and bitter, heavy and hollow.

Perhaps they aren’t even days at all,
Truth be told, we should call them nights.

For though a world remains visible to the eyes,
The darkness within cannot name the shapes without.

These days are emotional convulsions, tsunamis of the soul.
We know not their source, their reason, or their path.
But they came. Oh, they came.
Leaving the wreckage of our lives scattered across the coast.

Splinters of spirit strewn on the ground, Pools of agony where we once stood tall, And the pipes have burst, haemorrhaging a grief that will not end.

There are days that are deserts in their drought,
And tsunamis in their wake.

What to do in these days?
How do you quench the thirsty in these torrid lands?
How do you gather the shards scattered all over the place?

In these days, greyed, decayed, and delayed
These questions burn like the fever they feed.
They unmask a pain that has no name,
And there is no cure, no matter the blood, for a ghost you cannot diagnose.

And so, the minutes fade,
The hours wade,
The days grow weary of the weight.

And we, lost in the fray, cannot grasp the play of a mind
So extreme, so unking, so shattering wild.

Acharya Tadany.
Painful Meditation. 
Pune, 16 Jan 2026.

Photo by Road Trip with Raj on Unsplash

PS: Translated from Portuguese to English by Gemini.