The lake is smoothed jade after the rain
and only the commercial flotsam
of a lonely plastic Aqua bottle is adrift
on untrammelled waters.
A butterfly of the kind we usually see pinned and dead
drifts by
like me, enjoying the return of the sun,
“mata hari”, the eye of the sky
shining fiercely like Hanuman
from a leaden countenance.
Boys fool by my verandah view offering
to sell me a girl.
The travellers pass through like capsules,
pausing only to bleed money into outstretched palms.