There are some dawns,
of silver mirrors and rusty reflections,
when you wake up to a tune
coming from a distance; a flute’s
unadorned raga.
When time stands still,
in the womb of darkness, nascent
smiles are born, few survive while
others are aborted, bartered
for a few morsels of hope.
There are few rustic noons
planted in a courtyard, where
a hungry geranium trails
the corrugated asbestos, as
beads of sweat drizzle from
a leaden sky.
Little children bodies,
chase the wind
behind a rickety cart,
amidst whistles
and few barefooted prayers
climb the steps to godliness.
There are some evenings,
when sparrows and urchins
come home,
hand in hand.
A dusk where alms are split,
and a peasant eavesdrops
on yesterday’s conversation.
And then...
And then
You arrive,
like a whispered
wish of an anklet,
a touch of wet clay,
Lost charm in a bangle.
A firefly in wild play.
There comes a night,
when I sleep
in your embrace.
