The Day Poem by Ananya Guha

The day's extraordinariness is colour
shades of blue, and springs
well under a volcano of fire.
Earthquakes are passe
it is wonders that matter
the day is clatter of din
and in the garbage a smelling
crow pecks at left over food.
Yester years shoot back and forth
as winter's cold is just a touch
lie on the couch.
Dream, cut through antagonistic
ways, and the traveller
will meet your gaze
all in a maze.
The wind is mild, but nature is
still recalcitrant to the obstreperous
rains. When will there be thunderous clouds?
When will autumn return?

Take a placard or two.
It is time for witch hunting
sloganeering, as dust withers
into formless shapes.
In hallowed temples there is a bubble.
Pray for equality, caste and creed,
houses are held at ransom for the sacrificial
lamb. Pray, as the wind mutters half truths.
The full is heresy.

The day will slowly end with roving eyes
witness to murders.