Crows (Ii.) Poem by Sri Lal

I have seen smoke plume
like the crown of peacock
feathers my blue love wears.

Garbage burns beside the river,
but I dream that he woos me
with white champa bloom.
His hands are like the water
on my skin.

Still, some nights,
the fire of rag and bone rises
so that even the crow
cannot sing for the smoke.

Some nights, the blaze
chafes my throat,
and swallows the sky whole.

Some nights of jasmine bloom
and sweet rice, I am
mute in the face of love.

--Sri Lal