The civilized ghosts were potsherds , standing on no legs. Their nothing rose up to hot sun showing up in cowherd clothes, waiting for bus.The then cowherds along with cows turned souls standing among potsherds of the then mud.
Mud comes in combinations of things and men.We break to reinvent them afresh all through time under same sky, with a blazing sun studded in it.
The next time you visit archaeology sites, look for potsherds of earthy existence in wall plinths.
We are sitting under the neem. There is a custard apple tree touching our shadows.
There are a hundred and eighty nine pea fowls in the park,according to the information on a board. We saw just two on the walk.
A board says when the branches fall apart, the roots kiss each other.
In the meantime there is death in the air. A mere movie in the afternoon on the telly-was that deep as death ? After him ?
A mother grieves for a son “After him” .Can the tragedy be replayed after him ?After him there is noon ,there is sleep and another waking up to death again as though there was no waking up in between but ontological continuity between sleep, wakefulness and sleep.
Returning from you , we thought of you, we who are your journeymen as your big round eyes burned into our tired backs.
The sea was calm, yielding but a little orange dusk. We had a talkative middleman and some flowers to look into your eyes and ask all our questions.
Our minds went blank, capturing your stony beauty. We forgot to ask why you had made these images only to break them ,one by one, into fine powder.
Walking house , the sky is luminous with its tiny milk particles of dust .A path is overgrown with bushes for the pair of feet to tread softly ,poet-like, Irish bearded ,mystical .
it is highly minimal world of dreams for creatures beneath the leaves, grass dreams of the longest frames, dreams beyond allotted frames. Minimal bearded dreams abound under maximum skies, long time frames beyond allotted spans, pages overflowing letters ,beyond roads and bushes and forests and skies.
There is not an abundance of verbs ,since there is no doing , nor a doer ,in passivity of closed eyes dreams,the dreams that go beyond frames ,their allotted time and its frames, for the stars spilling beyond milk.
We are jugulars and are shrinking. We are islands that cannot be reached head up, Monroe’s islands thundering words that are just sounds.
Our grandfather is hopeful of our words beyond fury. Words are our fury our islands are full of. Our fury is entirely gender.
Sometimes it is the whole of mankind . But our words are like a fury spent on trees till they are horizontal to our earth.
Truth is what touches a fringe, a fact that dated back to grandmothers eating their rice one after the other in Sanskrit. Contradiction is a dead tongue spoke to bring down bodiless grandmother and grandmother, the ancestor rice eaters in their crows.
But that is what all our truth is. Truth is rice eating yearly crows that understand only Sanskrit,that is the tongue of the dead.We build bridges with the dead the way a bodiless truth works .
Truth is learning our colleagues no more eat rice off their plates.