A passerine from the Pharaoh’s garden
canned in a stone fit for a palm
sings the hymn for the God of the evening.
We have museum eyes, blink on the road;
the trees, traffic, crowd and the shops
appear stroboscopic. We move and stand still –
the actors on a rotating stage, trying
to recall an unwritten script. We look
for the audience but it seems too big
to conceive. We can be etched in a stone
held in the curious hand of a formless entity.
Kushal Poddar
.