Later the tale
of the white Dev and brave Rustam,
the distant moon a mango pit
licked smooth by a day old goat.
A nightly
ash of whispered ledgers.
How much like the body a house is,
how much like revolution:
After endless stupor, endless spiral
stairways,
joints, marbled thresholds,
echoes, live currents running
through
walls, bejeweled
not yet bullet-proof.
Our elders became fruit trees
after they passed on
this country to us. They scent
the terraces and stroke
the roofs.
They say:
Breathe in
the scintillating saw dust
of the yet unbuilt.
Would you like to leave a comment on this profile? Join Ink Node for a free account, or sign in if you are already a member.
|
|