Kalashnikov Poem by murari sinha

sleeping on the attic is the naked sun-shine
the yellow-minibus comes to drink her health

the door is being knocked at

in all sides
there are caravan of camels

how would you tell by shouting
that you’re busy now

then some pages are to be allotted
for procrastination

the rivulet of the fog of paddy-plants
digs open the heart of the late-afternoon
to build a hamam

you may gather some information
to see why
in the behaviour of the brown-t-shirt
so much characteristics of an amphibious
gets predominating

why while the casting of character-roles
is being made
hundreds of sound-piercing bows
come running

there is no singing of other songs here
but the silence

the printed cloths also
all by chewing the leaves of wood-apple
become the patients of dysentery

is it true then that
after winding up of the shop
of selling potatoes & onions
the kalashnikov
one hand of whom is amputed
sits on human-corpse
and wants to learn the know-how
of doing the meditation