Oh crucified Messiah!
You walk along
The Messi street
Here in Kozhikode playgrounds,
Alone,
Head hung.

You used to write poetry
With your foot
In the green field.
Green pens of press rooms.
How swiftly did they
Turn to red underlines.
—————

I am writing to you
From this land
Where poets will
Always get red card in
Playgrounds of poetry.

You should get down at Kozhikode one day.
I shall introduce you to
MoyduVanimel,
A journalist as old as Kozhikode.

We should roam all around Kozhikode
With him.
We should listen to Vanimel tales,
Sipping hot tea,
At Malapparambu, Puthiyara and Kallayi,
Everywhere that remained under
The spell of your foot.
—————

There is a mosque cemetry
Full of Meezan stones
By the beach.

Tombs
Tattooed with
Foot poetry
By many souls
Who died
Many deaths
In the playground.

You can see,
From your flight itself,
Those Henna trees
That lean towards these tombs
And nod lazily in drizzle.

There,
I shall kneel down
And repeat
The Liturgy for the Losers,
For You.