I shall declare as if, “The night is lost,
And the child froze by the park bench.”
As her heart, a tempestuous place
In this moribund slumber of silhouettes
Cast by the moon light, this immense night
Slowly transforms into another world
Where I am left with locks of hair – chestnut brown,
Two front teeth unsheathed, iridescently quivering,
Tiptoeing like a ballerina across my loutish skin,
And thinking about love not as a blessing, but a disdainful sin
-
Protruding roads in the humid rainy day and musk
This flask is empty, chagrined into eternal cobwebbed fortnights
And look at the mirror, eclipsing hair of resiliency,
Dare try to stifle with daggers, and daggers will eviscerate
Upon worlds of stitched memories, conjoined stars that form
Constellations that tell a fate that is null, void and succinct
As if, the acquittal of souls upon the gates of heaven were only
Woven with loose threads of your hair upon lithe arms –
You seep like the wine upon the fissures of my lips
Drought took its toll, like the bell that chimes over imprudent words
-
I remove one more fragment of my skin,
And dab it upon my wound to seal the frothy plinth
That would usher dreams into cringing flames upon a pyre
Or upon a bed – and that is the pyre where epitaphs
And ashen-skin that would harbinger what these eyes of
Glinting faint hope cannot – there is an obsidian in these eyes
That has forgotten about limerence, for the coldness
The heartless, the soulless, whatever spiteful name I could feign
To see you call yourself in front of the mirror,
Will never, ever - but long so to believe that forever
Is but a day in between January to December that would spin
Another coil of verve around a cypress, or sequoia or the very
Walls of your bed that look at you while you slumber
Acquiescently, I promise you this; meet me at the tryst
Where the Sun and the Moon meet – do you know where it is?
I do not know, and so I will send you letters attached with adamantine passion
And amaranthine amore – hold on tight but give some breathing room
For these hands cannot write a love,
That one cedes with heart, and obliterates upon mind.
-
Hold another noontime shine, and keep it
Like the Sun beneath your hair in every sprightly photograph
Captured upon the tapestry where the bungalows and rooftops
Dance in a promenade of masquerades with bare naked faces;
Their eyes were crafted to be veracious, but not so to endear
With such lamentation upon chandeliers and waltzing music
That tickles the ears and oppresses the soul - fantasize me
In porcelain, or sequins that line up like words in a book -
The perchance is that, I might die in the noon time shine that you hold
Never to return again, as I am taken away to a silent land -
Or maybe, just maybe, I will live for you in the days of the noon
And still try to vie against somnolence in the fortnights that paint
The city white - pallid, coarse with the troubles of every aurora
I will live for you, and die if I must - so as to prove that there is heaven
In an eternal winter in your heart - for heaven is as white as snow.
And that snow, will bring about another noontime shine, for our taking -
Or maybe for my taking, mine alone, and alone I shall be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem