The girl runs in front of the police van,
leans, presses her palm on the cold
black of the metal. The sky musters rain.
The black and the bleak have no discerning line.
“This road, ” someone says, “if you believe
that the earth is round, doesn’t end.”
Here, in Monsoon, people stays wet
with rain or sweat. There is an end
and a beginning of the wait.
The lovers and the loners watch the girl,
and she holds the police van with her lazy palm.
The dogs corner something
back somewhere.
Everyone turns to see who
triggers the constant dissent.
The dogs circle a blank space,
air over the black concrete, and
barks baring all their teeth.
The Earth Awakens
” Don’t Worry about the house.”
The Spider says.
Different shades of whispering
fall in the garden.
I sweep my the chest of my tee shirt
and the crumbs of a mess
invites the ants, and they
queue for the ration.
For one blink I feel enlightened,
in another I am me again,
a deaf to the shadows; thirsty to the light
and telling my mind that multitasking
is rewiring the brain.
Wind floods me with the shrine s
hattered by the last earthquake
.
Kushal Poddar
Words & Picture
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