Monday, November 28, 2011

The rickshaw puller
peddled my heart,
rising and sinking
as he made our way through the narrow gullies that
spread around like sensuous waves
of an enchantress' mane hiding within her curls
ancient secrets smelling of attar and lust,
holding to her bosom couplets of  forgotten poets ,
and sighing in remembrance of  her lovers from a better time.
With night wrapped around it,
filling the contours of my eyes,
 the half globe of the distant dome
through invisible strings of  faith tethering millions to it,
over it the moon holding a cup of venomous power
seeing histories run through tidal waves,
on the sidewalks barbers sat
shining knifes clearing
 white foams of fatigue
off jaded faces of workers
and hawkers who sell bronzes of fake mongolian buddhas.
In the moving crowd
violet eyes of young men
speaking forth  languages of civilizations
I have not heard yet,
cutting painfully through me as they pass and vanish
like glass glued strings of silk kites from yore,
I sat back cautioning my heart in vain
not to fall in love on these streets.