Poems

In the smallest and closest form I lay
In a consuming pursuit
From purple of dawn to orange daze of dusk
The nape bent inwards along the spine
In a bizarre jigsaw I find myself enclosed
For in the melee of voices
The mind is in a state of a quiet tumult
Its rhythm and roar lulling the mind
This resigned self-exclusion feels like the only home

I float in a sea of illusions, half in half out
A limitless pool of water, within the confines of this mind
I know but I deny, I do not succumb, I run
Into the denseness of the woods, deep inside
To deem a virtue, bare and hollow

I am lying down unmoving
Eyes wide open, seldom-blinking
The night is dark and lonely
Reminiscing, I travel into quondam
As if a time portal has opened up
I enter a trance and there it comes –
The most silent hour of my night.

I see you daily, in my court,
You come and gait slowly in circles.
Round the grub, I put for you.
Someday they are crumbs,
Someday millets, or pulses,
Pallets of the leftovers, in bits.

Hurled up in a valley, in a land foreign to me
Is a war. Aged three. Orphaned.
The snow it plays with has grown red, more of crimson.
Some amusing sounds it has learnt. Quite loud they are.

सबीना के सैंडल टूट गए थे
अम्मी ने रात को सी कर ठीक कर दिया उन्हें,