Is it a poem I see across lanes
that I walked in childhood?
A poem suffers the inevitable,
those at the centre change, see the poem marauding in lights of dream a poem suffers — aesthetics of writing, believing summing up all that is left in skeletons and bones of words. I dream of poems in gutters of the oblivious, the pariah, the untouchables. Writing helps, but the carnage goes on. Explicit. Implicit.
Silent are these hills
amidst the bravado of writing poetry, one hears sirens, blasts, gun shots. In my country. In others.
