A lot here,
Like the
Silken silhouette of a rose,
A cone shaped bud,
On one whispering thorny branch.
Silver in the evening.
A winter line, in summer.
A melancholic blue
Watery meniscus against a dry grey sky
The evening star,
Like the first sparkle of moon
In an infants eye.
Silence, beauty, and a Mad, naive breeze,
Riding furtively together.
Parting the clouds,
Painting the picture of
A quiet sea.
A sullen nothingness
In the dying aura of
A Sinking,
Scarlet Sun
And beneath it all,
Lies the gaping brown earth.
The fading dust dreams,
Of a wasting away people.
Warm leavened bread buttocks
Bending blades of
Wayward hazel grass.
Wretched drops of liquid amber urine.
The Sound of disease,
In gritty mongrel growls.
Elderly bones,
Taut wrinkled skin,
Drawn meagerly about them.
Curly Chest Hair,
A pubic grey.
The clap of chappal-less feet
On pitted cement.
And a little further away
The bright white glow
Of a colourful material shop.
Red, blue, mauve, beige.
Yellow, grey, flesh pink.
Streams of silken cloth
Strewn elegantly before
Deer eyed customers.
The sardonic sparkle
Of pride
Pride in Poverty perhaps,
Or just a miserable delusion.
Evening.
And the beauty
of the endless lake to our right
Hills pouring water in a frenzy
And now the disappearing sky,
a sullen world
In its cursed shadow…
but you,
You protect me,
from nothing,
from everything,
we watch, we write
on this grey peeling terrace
You engulf me more wholly
than a womb does its foetus
I create your emotions
with my lips.
The earth fades
at your fingertips.
We must be one branch
on that agape vine.
India, on the outside,
You
on the inside…