the krishnachura and the champa

both of them
have the only-one unsheathed afternoon

both of them
have the same-one broken harmonium

how long more the eyes of terracotta
would roam in the sun

the uneven fate-line
is written on the green slate

the sound of the vocal chord is also eloquent
as if it were some  bare trees of wood-apple

around the swimming
there are some scattered scrapes of slippers

the colour of whose straps
is blue

and some tales of the faded sky

i return home with the night of
phosphorus

i return with those waves of the
mid-night that have no translation

i lay them in order