I don't know these Yellow pages,
I can't find her number here,
The Yellow pages have gone yellow,
Still, her number should be there.
I don't know the breath I'm breathing,
It's a bit shorter than usual, I think,
Don't know this heart that is pumping,
I suspect it's about to sink.
I don't know this town that I'm leaving,
Still, why does it disavow me and disown?
The turnpike and neon lights are different,
I think I'm in a different town.
A friend sent this quote:
That you would come back
On the moonlit path,
And flesh the silhouette
Of my longings,
The moon waits quietly
In the sky.
Image courtesy Brig Girish Gogia (Retd).
Yesterday:
The scented breeze came first,
And the rains came later.
Today:
The rains ran out,
And the soft breeze came later.
Yesterday:
She came first,
And the tears came later.
Today:
The tears ran out,
And she came later.
Who knows who built that bridge and why.
Was there a stream that gushed below?
Why would anyone build
A bridge over shifting dunes?
A bridge over a road to nowhere?
Perhaps bridges are only monuments,
Like pyramids.
They connect no shores,
Nor seek a way over troubled waters.
Different Hues of the Water Metro
Water Metro, Kochi steaming away:
Onwards to High Court Water Metro Station
There is a space
Between light and shade,
There is a time
Before love is eclipsed.
Some heed
When it's still love's penumbra,
Some let the eclipse engulf,
Still others are overwhelmed
By the ephemeral shadow.
