oh give it any name,
a martyr, king,
clown, fighter,
warrior, film star,
singer, cricketer...

but tell me
that the road
will last
this monsoon,

that it will not
soon resemble
the great craters
of the moon,

that you will
not dig up here,
suddenly
remembering
about some
buried gold...

tell me, will
I ever say-
*"let us walk
down our
good old
road again"

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

why does the sparrow alight
at my barred window,

what does it view from
its iron bar perch,

brushing its furtive beak on
the black-painted surface,

a wave movement,
going down its throat,  

a jasmine creeper,
wound to the bars,

buds anew, withered
petals, dew-fragrant bloom,

it sees none of those,
but a habit embarked

on by some instinct,
the sparrow stays

stays stays stays...
and to what urge,  

at a exact moment,
it takes flight

dwindle dwindle
dwindling from sight,

a soul so petite,
mammoth sky...

your hate my friend
rings more true
than your concern
ever did

lately your
devious
cunning and
withdrawn  

darkness
of desire
and lust
bursts

enveloping
you in
lurid
colours

gliding
away from
your tricksy
innards

mimicked,
withdrawn,
bulbous,
your guttered

hatred and
ignorance so
pronounced
nothing

could have
been more
stark
but this

clear, dire,
directed
detest
my friend

your hate my friend
make murky islands,
rake dead leaves,
but make not you

remember the moment
you lost yourself, from
quiet wisdom to animal
stench, unquenchable

your hate my friend
defeated you and
you need no more
defeating within

your hate my friend

round
dizzy
breezy
sweaty
swirl

blast
roar
thump
beats
gong

the
heart

clasp
sway
kiss
hug
snug

one
and
apart

one
and
apart

the pigeon has not
just lain two eggs,

it has lain the
promise of flight,
pairs will take off,
float and land
with adroit skill,
feverishly mate
to fast-flapping
feathers, curve
an avian circle...

now if I may ask,
as the human
on whose area
you roost,
prospective
mother, what
exactly are
you doing
about hygiene?

like when will the
next pigeon
generation be
toilet-trained?

after all cats
dig a hole and
cover afterwards
so you see -
ablution evolution
is certainly possible
in the creature world

I have no other
complaints,
winged sister,
you take
little space,
may your
children prosper

we are sorry
for the trees ,
by the way

for our species,
frequently intimidated,
perennially afraid,
build fortresses
of dismay, that you
have to conjure
your nests on them

I do hope your kids,
god willing, when
time ripens, built
their nests on
branches, lay their
eggs on huge trees,
take flying classes
off stout branches...

by the way,
don't spread
the word to the
rest of your kin,
that our balcony
is the nesting kind

you see we humans
are still animal,
still territorial,
once is fine, but
another time,
we are not
so jovial...