In New Delhi in October the air is so polluted you can stare right at the sun. The people are bored. My electric blue kurti and dupatta assure onlookers I am no cannibal The fabric much brighter
Strung out are these words! These colors! These sounds! pray to the god in my bicycle and in my shoes humbled by the smallest flower The more languages we hear the less we know our own. Tattoos on palate twelve numbers which rule so justly, cripplingly, So unjustly Suddenly The meaning of brilliance has changed Into what is sweet The genius of simple intimacy, a bosom friend Logic ceases And with it, self-reliance
The Jeremiad traffic horns, a rude awakening Who is pilot? We cannot blame Jonah! If I were him I would not be so brave to run to the sea So deep The vanitas in creativity. But beauty is melancholy.
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