Days
In the circle of days
like vinyl records
we creep
under the turntable stylus.
The music
is almost never sweet
scratches and skips
are part of the package.
Our only song
sometimes
ends before the end.
The B side
is not always paradise.
****************************
Still
Come,
come and meet me
under the wing, in soft breast.
Under the branch
my silence rests.
Come and meet me
where puffs of green
embrace this evening hour.
I still count you
among what heartens me
and your summer voice,
with its rustle of stars,
makes me fly
among aerial nocturnal jellyfish.
It seems done
to lead me to secret lives.
****************************
Dalit tea
Heavy weighs the basket
of light leaves
light hangs my basket
for a child’s schooling.
How many leaves
still
before evening
and my sandal flies
a sole’s justice
in the face of the mighty
from one who has nothing.
****************************
Bread
I wish I could keep all the pieces together
as a stalk does its grapes,
and lose neither years nor friends,
nor long-cherished lovers,
and keep on smelling the fragrance
of my mother’s newly-washed laundry
and the aroma of her warm breakfast milk.
But this life is like bread
that breaks into crumbs at every bite;
if you put it down for a moment
whoever is clearing the table
will whisk it away.
****************************
Biography
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