Act I (With due apologies to T.S. Eliot)
I wait for the compassionate philharmony of lilac rains
to wash away the cruelty of April ,
for the electric of distant thunders
to short circuit the blue vitriol of my soul,
waiting to dream the curled up baby pink foetus sleep
in the arms of a wild wind.
Period.
Act II
Pelting my soul with icy shards of sweet melancholy,
the monsoons open my windows,
to a million forbidden republics of poetry, love and madness.
the summer sizzles and dies in its puddles,
like an ageing item number.
Wheezing at the smells of new earth
I succumb to my wounds,
and bleed out of my translucent wrapping,
to the luminosity of the nearest Wada Pav stall.
– K.P.Jayasankar
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