Comments about Aditya Shankar
What My Grandfather Likes
When rabbit hunters come from distances
with smiling guns and moustaches,
he plays the flute deep and painful,
closing its helpless holes as if his eyes.
And as the night stinks of meat, fire and victory,
He lies on a thick bed that hides undisclosed keys and wet eyes,
among the many layer of secrets.
Dismantling the dear, old cycle into independent entities,
he makes strong statements about memory
on mornings that supersede grief.
No point searching for him behind the lost round glasses,
Feel him in that stretch to pick up cigars from the ...