Wednesday, June 13, 2012


Indraprastha

The rains came early this year, surprising the billboards

crumpling beneath the advancing columns.

See the sudden multireflexes –

Empty silhouettes of trees, waving forlornly at the dying traveller.

gulmohur jewels, now pasty and pastelshaded on splashy roads.

A momentous roadsign, hidden under fraying

exhortations of political thievery, stands like a wet old man

leaning on battered memories refusing to budge.


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The earth of this doomed city rises up in smoky suburban curtains,

settling on the silver earlobes of serrated glinty women,

on the dismal burdens of streetchildren and the yellow halos

of rail workers digging up mournful treasures,

even as it refuses to let them take root in its scalding veins

where the blood runs thick and dark, like wild trails of bitter chocolate



almost felt on the tongue,

in gritty kohlweary eyes,

in the air, whispersmelt

on flapping wings



brushing the threadbare expectant skin

with the burning droplets that dropped early this year

on archived greypixelated screens.

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