Five not so easy pieces: #2
After the rites
In the burning Ghats
I watch tired bodies praying
for a cleaner death.
Spring
When the weather turns
a harp plays inside my bones
and ripples my soul.
Hooked Under
Gulmohar petals
trapped under my car's wiper
struggle to break free
like bra hooks in the hands of
an over eager lover.
The commerce of words
Take a great poem.
In its humble remembrance
over hundred years,
do you picture the decay
of human conversation?
There is memory
Every night, I watch
a father walk with his child
inside our compound;
Sometimes I feel guilty, but
always there is memory.