Treading on the Khaki Letters
Arrives in my city
like an expert guerilla –
The spring
For whom masquerading
Is the most ancient science of Earth
The red ammunition
Has burst in its branches
Whose strength of explosion of silence
I am a penniless cobbler
Has since been mending
The same pair of shoes
Whose owner one day
would tread over the khaki letters
and fetch me the arecanut
from the tallest tree
from the entrance of the last walker of the afternoon
before that
how many failed ambush
The letter
That was certain not to arrive
Still being waited
with a thin ray of hope
Arrived
By this time
All the letters turned illegible
Still
Where there had been
some heartiest presence
to be able to read
Though could not exactly fathom
What news was there
One news was found
To feel the warmth
In that decrepit letter
Taking part in the silent prayers
For the salvation of the departed souls
I too started considering myself as dead
In the sting of the hornet
That entered into my room
Failing to understanding the difference between the window and the sky
I did finally realise
I still have a life
To be able to feel the pains
Is time a long measuring tape
To keep measuring length of life
Is time a weighing balance
To keep measuring the weight of fame
Is time the watchman of a museum
To keep watch on the dust lying on monuments
No one asked these to anyone
The words have started moving upstream turning into air
The words regurgitated by cloud in the form of water
Appears to be circling in a water cycle
To let free the words
To make the speaker out of wit with a barrage of question
This brief advertisement is put up
Seeking for a tongue
