Four of them thirteen times lashed this land
and three; As the skies wept over
our sullied homes, heart rending in Indra's roar,
teary eyed, wearily waited these desolate gates:
Where the cove that shelters you in rain?
Whiplash on our backs, the mid-season
Mantharas, we who sent jasmine Janaki's feet
to the thorn-laden paths of the jungles deep,
where dwell the soul-snatchers vile;
By the fires of the winter, storms raged,
when word came of her loss;
As the quarters wailed thumping their chests;
Was this why we brought forth the Sesha down,
to keep vigils under the wind's unending flutter?
Folorn with every leaf falling into the Sarayu,
shrunk now to a stream in the burning pangs
of this earth for the touch of your feet,
this holy night, when we await you
with rows of lamps, that now swells in spate:
prince of our hearts, woe begot for all times,
that we sent you to the bush on the night
of your ascension. Now the heavens hymn
bursting forth in joy, that you are with us,
withered, fatherless this Raghu realm!

Girl with the tribal tattoo,
tell me, what that on your arm left?
Lone, the wolf on the farm
totem ranging the dark,
we are of one kind;
Digging for them old spades
there at the Embankment,
we went wrong at the right turn
and still reached the end:
there was a bus for every misstep;
Posting you cards from abroad,
a mystery penny of a call;
Lost in a circle of smoke
not the signpost blame.
Late at night when the winds tiptoe
on roof tiles and you duck
into my arms unafraid;
Here we walk, hand in hand,
in the rain, now in the park
past the winter eve.
Girl with the tribal tattoo,
we are of one kind.
Old, the totem call of the night.
And the dragon writhes when
among them gongs amok
red the colour of the season new.

Some say the Singularity comes in '45
some, not the name of a movie made;
Einsteins can sing till kingdom come, but
why there should be one, some can't fathom!
But for me, this is real,
every when you walk past then,
my heart rate's on Richter scale,
Singular girl, on orthogonal lane!
There must be those spaces
called Calibi-Yau, or I get and gone how?
Hidden dimensions that don't exist
except in those, your dimpled frowns?
I know now, our branes don't meet,
but while you want to differentiate
and love that done partially more,
at the horizon, calculus is mess!
Gravity girl, don't make me loop
this quantum dude, let it emerge,
the whole thing, all am asking
is for a meeting!

Are you of the aeons before time,
how do we ken, us forlorn
of this speck of a world?
Blank we saw the canopy of our world
where stars blink in the dark night
and wept for a love caring and kind;
Lost, fatherless, orphaned
out of our childhood dreams
and we went searching hither
Gilgamesh to the horizon and back;
And you smiled, peasant woman,
hair streaking across the clouds
over the hills, across the vales;
In the still depths, an assurance;
Senora, or is time of the aeon before?
So long before that era then
to us forlorn of this speck of a world,
it matters not, it matters not

I want to write of those times
before we started counting the years
words like beads, precious
like none before,
crimson dabbed in evening light
the heart, by the riverbank;
When we walked across the town
lost, unconcerned;
Them sanctuaries and vespers
that consecrated a nameless love
unborn, yet painting the horizon
red like a distant dawn;
Song of the drums welcoming
the Autumn Goddess;
And we ascended the sky
and knew not, when
the wheel of time that giant eye
stole past us:
and we land counting
the years, steps and dreams
that were lost, never to return.

Then I must long for you, mourning
like the lark long after light -
fires shivering in the distant night,
shriveling bush in winter,
for her warm wings of green
aflame in a sacred time;
There go the buds that never bloomed
dug in the earth with the coffins
waiting for redemption;
Senora, breathe into my neck
like you are nowhere:
let me swim with you in those
phantasms that your eyelids conjure
past the whorls and eddies and currents
up the hills where in blood
are painted tales of the past,
daggers dug up the heart
treasured, it is mulled, mutual
the sour pressed red;
And then with wings gliding
past the valleys long after light
unuttered the hymns of the heart
that sing of you, flooding
and swallowing the embers
lingering on in the shadows of
the withered rose, long gone;
Then I must long for you, mourning
like the lark long after light.

And then draped in your cloak
shimmering like the dark night
hair streaking past your eyes
them leaves across the wet moon
when you turn looking back at me
I can believe in a hundred rebirths
and die breathing like the sun at dusk
drowning in the distant sea
bleeding across the horizon
mourned by the gulls
Senora, I don't know you
and yet I do, friend across the ages,
here we meet again