Violence Of Time Poem by Aparna Eswaran

The wheels of the windmill
try and make a revolution,
but half way through, at its pinnacle,
it retreats retracing its path.

The violence of this time refuses to pass,
and it stays hard, staring from the vacant eyes
of half baked durga idols,
bleeding crimson traces
of falling gulmohar blooms,
flaming and red in indelible suffering.

On lonely autumn evenings,
the mind follows faces,
moving in waves, looking for digressions,
as the fixity of your memory blurs
the world into stoic stillbirths
of such insufferable silence.