Ria Kejriwal

The slope is steep
where the Nebbiolo clings,
to marl and limestone,
and the weight of kings.

He is the rust of iron,
the tar, the rose,
a violence
that only the cellar knows.

Across the draw,
the Chardonnay is gold.
A scripture of light
that cannot be told.

She is the flint, the butter,
the orchard’s breath.
A vibrant living
in the face of death.

One tastes of the vigil,
one tastes of the flame.

One craves a silence
only bitterness can tame.

One is a spirit
with no steady name. View Post

The moor still breathes
where blades once met,
its soil is dark,
its memory red.

No cairn was raised,
no dirge was cried,
yet, the blood on Culloden*
has not truly died.

The sky wore grey
like widow’s thread,
while lead and steel
outpaced the dead.

Mo ghràdh, mo chridhe,
they called in vain—
my love, my heart—
then could speak no name.

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By the glistening Lochs,
where grief smells like peat
and ancient rain—
this is where you set me free.

The dust was cast
to the throat of the gale—
it was cold, salt-stung,
primordial and pale. View Post

Daaru chakhna waala pyaar,
sutta chai waala pyaar.

Yeh bhi jeevansathi hain,
lekin Shaadi.com pe nahi mile the.

Caffeine addiction waala pyaar,
rebel tattoo waala pyaar.

Wedding reels mein
haldi doodh aur makeup ke peeche
goom jaata hai yeh pyaar.

Kisi biodata mein nahi milta
aisa waala pyaar. View Post

She is a temple
carved from light and shadow.
Every curve a sacred line
drawn by the Gods.
Her skin,
the smooth marble
of some forgotten altar,
warm and golden,
as if the sun hides beneath it.

In her eyes, a heaven unfolds—
a forest and fields of gold,
stars, though not distant,
but burning—alive, and close.

Her lips are a chalice,
full, offering,
but never quite giving away
all at once.
She speaks like hymns
whispered through ancient halls,
echoing with secrets
of the divine. View Post

The city exhales a fever of light
as the crowds reach for the newborn year;
New Year’s Eve throws the windows wide
and drowns the dark in a collective cheer.

The future hums with a restless promise;
and change is claimed in motion,
a thousand voices caught in the rush
of a vast and rising ocean.

​But somewhere in the Highlands,
Hogmanay* lingers at the door,
keeping watch on the fire and silence
and the path we’ve walked before. View Post

The sky has returned
to its familiar grey.
It has shed the mask
of bright blue
and loosened its grip
on the sun —
a long exhale
after weeks of carrying
the light.

It carries that weight
no longer. View Post

Even to the sky,
the morning is only a murmur.

It stirs slowly,
shifting under its own weight,
gathering colours
like edges of a dream.
Rolling light
between its palms,
not quite ready
to let go of the night. View Post

“Ardour of love”
“calm in the storm”—
that’s what you made me,
a quiet sanctuary
for your disquieted soul.

But your chaos
wasn’t kind—
it seeped in, slowly—
it made me the hollow
where your darkness
would rest.

Locked
in love’s dark lair,
with crystals
and carnations—
empty symbols
that couldn’t soften
the steady suffocation View Post

I hate when this love
leaves me,
and when I don’t feel you
in the stars.

When I don’t hear that 80s
vinyl crackle
in the way the leaves
rustle
on the street.

By the clearing where
the Bullet whirs,
and a wide-eyed girl
calls to the clouds, View Post

It is almost
always
the fireworks
and illumination,
champagne pops
and jubilation
that signal the naissance
of a new year.

But may a quieter light
find you
this year;
like a gentle beam of sun
warming
through the windows
A sunrise here to stay,
not fleeting fireworks
barely passing over shadows.

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Every battle
turns war.

Like an interlude
rising into chorus.

Swords moving through the silhouettes,
and the vital red
falls
to the floor

Just like that minor chord
that makes the score.

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