Wednesday, July 20, 2011


Bound by an ancient habit,
On every dawn of my village
The Sun of my childhood
Rises on his own.
From the violet
Over my village cemetery

As usual
During an unusually sultry monsoon
The rustic clouds
Pour themselves out
Over my village earth
Unmindful of her necessities.

During a forlorn
And tired twilight,
The remote stars
Dreamy and subtle,
Yet distinctly familiar
Even to my ancestors,
Sleep-walk on to
The dark canvas
Forming a celestial pattern.

Wild and passionate,
The spring flows
From the usual direction
Of my cousin’s village
On the Basanta Panchami Day
Year after year.

Flying from nowhere to perch
On the dark bough
Of the old banyan tree
In my backyard,
The lonesome cuckoo
Pours out his soul
Without waiting for the chorus.

The passionate jasmine
My mother planted
In our garden
Gets impatient to bloom out
Its nocturnal fragrance
For whomsoever it may concern.

This being so in and around me,
Should I wait for your permission
To spell out the vibrations of my heart?

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