Roof tops are mad
rattling, whispering
groaning. They love noise
that is piquant.
They love silences of time.
Their lunacy is immeasurable
and then they chortle.
No, they are not humorous
their bland movements
are to be taken seriously.
And when rains pound heavily (on them)
they raise voices in chorus.
Sometimes birds, rabbits, dogs and monkeys climb
on to them in parasitical delight
when night's heaviness weighs on silences.
Roof tops then articulate movements
of steady sound. Rat- a- tat. Sounds
that impinge dreams, hallucinations.
Ghosts walk on them.
As a child roof tops hurtled into sleep.
Still harangue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The lunacy of roofs lies in trying to act as a wall between us and the sky. How can the sky be screened off forever? It will eventually peep through somehow.