They say it's cliché, writing
a poem about being alone on your birthday.
Cause how could you be alone, with the not-so-faux paradise of the gently swaying lush greenery that sprouts tweety-bird yellow over your head,
complete, with the insistent ca-caw of the Red-throated beak that doesn't let you sleep on the anniversary of your birth.
How could you be alone with the contrast beneath, the contest of of somnabulism between the rickshaw and the great grey suzuki, that perfectly encompasses the colour of Europe.
The barking stray dogs in the Pune streets, the rustle of the parakeet palms in the monsoon breeze.
You're stuck in a shell of unending continuity, howling canines and Hindi beats, honking cars and the buzz of your mind.
alone. and old.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
They say it's cliché, writing
a poem about being alone on your birthday.
Cause how could you be alone, with the not-so-faux paradise of the gently swaying lush greenery that sprouts tweety-bird yellow over your head,
complete, with the insistent ca-caw of the Red-throated beak that doesn't let you sleep on the anniversary of your birth.
How could you be alone with the contrast beneath, the contest of of somnabulism between the rickshaw and the great grey suzuki, that perfectly encompasses the colour of Europe.
The barking stray dogs in the Pune streets, the rustle of the parakeet palms in the monsoon breeze.
You're stuck in a shell of unending continuity, howling canines and Hindi beats, honking cars and the buzz of your mind.
alone. and old.
