The Voice of Girija
the Soul of Bismillah
wake me up;
Hey, where am I?
I casually tried
treading Fear;
Those narrow blackened
Corridors of Time;
and
Where am I
today?
Have I
already
reached
my Time
or
do You hate me for what
I really am?
the One,
and only One,
the Untouchable
the copulating
untouchable;
who
touches you where
(even now, after so long!)
You denyingly
Love it
the most?
That afternoon Sky
blinds,
hurts;
like scabs
opening to
the morning Mist,
Were You among
the Faithful
or wasn’t I?
Hey,
where am I?
Lost at some crossroads;
perhaps,
of undulating Time
that classical
Prostitute
standing her last
Tears,
the redness of somebody’s lips
greasing Her’s,
her writhing Hips,
her bloodied Tomb;
at the aplomb
of our Hatred,
our Separation,
our
Curse?
Perhaps,
Girija knows
and
Bismillah sounds
like a lonely Azaan
amidst
the blood-stained
Hills of Misfortune;
As if,
You weren’t You
and I never
knew Myself!
I really
loved You!