Rain falling, day after day,
as if trying to clean off
our permanent stains,
but all it does is discolour
My home grew wizened on its Vivid Bharati
Its highs and lows, the fluctuating waves
Its knob has forsaken us in our last whitewash
Cells heated in the sun turn silent by nightfall
As the past approached,
the future, even when you've lived it,
remains to be seen.
They said: Don't go to the end of the Earth
because your lengthening shadow will frighten you.
There it is the world of winged pythons;
the earth there is ablaze with the fire they spit.
I saw the stars far off -
as far as I from them:
in this moment I saw them -
in moments of the twinkling past.
Is it right to speak of myself?
This will do:
I am a blue-eyed blackbird
My wings know all directions
I want to write to the lost children,
those whose clothes hung from the branches
of the mulberry tree, getting smaller
as the branches grew.
Between midday and nightfall
there comes a time
when the day's noise and actions
are already done with,
While light for us is fading
elsewhere it is brightening.
Sand has flown from the Sahara in the night,
crossing lands and seas to fall on this city.
Or has some wind blown it from nearby fields?