(1)
Crazy people they say
exist like rainbows;
dissecting light into fractals
but I guess you aren’t crazy
for when I utter your name
you cease to be
I can’t sleep;
I dream of rain sprouting daffodils in your hair
and dead boys rising from their graves
to tie their epitaphs to your braids
you walk past the barracks holding your shadow in mouth
who shall we now blame
for leaving road sans milestones
unlike you I don’t take refuge in the semiotics of voids
for there are no eyes where despair turns into nostalgia ;
sparrows of tomorrow abandon my mirror
when I think you aren’t spring.
(2)
Let us bear the boredom of being misunderstood
while the cold and damp hands of November
caress our slumped shoulders
and the empty glances of familiar eyes fall on us like rain
they talk of being confounded with multitude of variables
what shall we say
crows perch on naked trees
and yellows of dead leaves lie swaddled in blankets of grey afternoons
there are signposts of belonging in this city
but not for us
see how we begged from houses to homes
and came back only with rooms full of loneliness.
(3)
Soon the sidewalks will be littered with autumn leaves
and graveyards will smirk with corpse filled bellies
but I will still be inside this maze
mapping the inexorable hideousness of circles
I spend hours trying to put feelings into memories
(adding voices to dumb photographs
or faces to faded words)
and nights become denouements of
horrifying emptiness of my soul
sometimes it seems to me that
there is
no consolation whatsoever for this angst of denial
If only death wasn’t the bold headline of daily newspapers
and I had the courage to weep and laugh like old times
how easy it would have been to act human again.
(4)
Weary of our wanderings
road has turned into this stretch of emptiness
wherein everyone bursts into laughter
just because grief has left mourning redundant.
(5)
Leave the clock
that talks to me all night
(about forgotten faces floating
in the emptiness of winter fields)
and I shall slump
into the weedy light of moon
arranging foreheads of dead
on dry dust of bookshelves
or
maybe I shall silently
weep on the windowsill
remembering the way her eyes shone
the day eclipsed sun left us blind
I am a child of myself,
my want is no dearth
if the beggar’s bowl
holds both you and the universe
what shall be deemed worth offering?
a single face
fills a million mirrors
how can I be anything;
wind has no name in my country
why scorn the brambles
for their contempt of directions
if only the madmen can decipher
parables of wilderness.
