Shadow keepers and whisper-mongers
dressed up in hallowed head gears:
An eternal flame weeps
that leads to the heart of the republic.

Fly-by air drills and tableau thrills,
mighty state on display,
don't delight anymore;
Who's the guest of honour
taking the salute this year?
Who cares - this is
a republic in distress.

Dusty statues of heroes past
that gave their blood for a vision
that freed, spruced up today
weep in their silhouette.

One stands accused
of subverting law for partisan ends
Another owes everything
to a last name and what else since?
What choice - this is
a republic in despair;
Crisis everywhere.

But sadly, no one seems to care.
Happy republic day.
There's a new pub down the road.
Exciting malls on the way.
Drink, brother, to wits' end.
The republic don't care.
The republic in decline.

Midnight thrall:
middle of the road, fingers
tucked in long full-sleeves
but for floodlights
emerging off mists:

An event. A memory. A bell.
No end in sight.

Silent night. Mad owls prowl.
Confused crows some still awake.

Milk clogs the kitchen drain.
Hour of the shadows.
Nothing ever lasts,
nothing ever lasts.

Distant clock. Pitter-patter tap.

Stupid evolution.

The gene pool flows on
to utter unknown ends.

Meanwhile we dream up
heaven-like unions and revolutions
and coronations.

Stupid night. Confused crickets.

Spider and insects. Enter
the lizard. Half a telephone ringing.
Man at the summit.

See-saw, swing. Dying distance.

Secret inspirations on wonder nights
that come on the wings of wet winds,
moments that tiptoe across the gulf
of the worlds, I keep them deposited,
safe in your soul; When you smile,
you bring hundred hidden meanings
to life; You are my journal: in you I
hold my fondest fjords and rarest
gorges zealously concealed from the
prying eyes of life and time; Empty
flower vase that brings a silent corner
alive in shades of azul, dream-song
of the lone twig romancing the moon
in waving waters of the silent lake,
distant star that lights smiling eyes,
invisible companion on sacred quests,
hope of the cactus in barren deserts,
Señora, without you, I am a poet
orphaned in the loss of his journal.

These birds of war that encircle the sky
painted dark by smoke from fires engulfing
events here: every one of them spawns
an illusion, spreading in all directions, until
no twig is untouched: everywhere only
the Mistletoe. Fragrances of the deep night
by the ford under the moon, silken hair
soft for touch under first rays of the golden
morn, images, return broken like imprints
on the ramparts; where now, those oaks
of love that sustained our passion for war?
Years sunk into the quicksands of greed,
After nine winters, now only the Mistletoe.

Three cars are parked by the clearing
I find, every night under the faint light
of the dim street lamps. Two of them,
sedans, red and black, while the other's
a hatchback, white in colour. All dusty
and faded before the occasional wash.

The wheels of the white car have dug
into the mud after the puddles caused
by rains cleared. And flowers and twigs
garment it. I thought they were a big
family but, one, they own  a small car,
and two, they seem to use it sparse?

The red sedan, always parked reverse,
is sometimes gone suddenly away and
at other times, stays parked for weeks.
I've seen him in and out; does he have
work out-stations? Good car, I must
say though, for he's young and single.

The black one is gone most days, and
sometimes, for days together, to return
covered in bird droppings. They moved
recently, this quiet couple who prefer
to keep to themselves. May be they go
on long weekend drives out of the city?

I wonder, gazing at them, sipping my
tea, by the window, late every night.
'Why don't you just go speak to them',
says my wife, tired of my speculations.
'Hmm...not today, bit tired. Tomorrow,
May be', I say, as I jot down these lines.

These faultlines we tread:  
of island loves, we dread.
On the crests, lie parked our loyalties:
siblings, friends, parents and loves,
every love, bounded by sadnesses;
Faultlines that carry buried
embers under piles of smoke; and then
once a while, a paper wheel that
was still, revolves in the slow wind -
and embers come alive;
Suddenly unrequited attractions flame
over: O the lure of danger-laden
pathways on these faultlines that
we dread, yet love to tread.

How in dark lights, shadows talk and
could-have-been's and how-nice-
it-would-have-been's play out,
lonely paths, where embers
and shadows flutter in the winds, we
walk on. The fair wears out,
the gathering disperses, and
this deja vu cabin flashes
out exactly like those years ago and
hope emerges out into the
renewing fair, with the crest,
in that undivided year
when the sea hadn't reduced this mass
of our loves to these island bits
with these faultlines that we
dread, yet, love to tread

Between dim lights behind and
the streetlamps below, here,
shades of darkness where
my shadow mingles with
those of the chairs and the vase,
the lamp, and the cyclic rhythm
of the shadow of the fan
that slices moments to pieces,
to the music of  the gushing waves;
As you are busy illustrating slices
of life down there, you Señora,
stand illustrated, in these loving
shades of grey and black;
Now the wind travels far
beyond where the sky in her tunic
adorned of stars takes a dip
in the sea; These clouds, like me,
travel miles to weep by this same sea
that washes their native shores.