Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Who said that waiting is
a railway station in North Malabar?
That a morning in uniform will
arrive there in a coffin?
Who said memory is
a fragrant window opening on
ripe corn fields? That
our bodies grow cold
as the sun grows dim there?
Who said trees have
ceased to follow
wind’s language? That
we must conceal from lilies and rabbits
the news of the death of love?
Who said now moons
will be heavy like
a drunkard’s head? That
evenings will have sick hearts
like a desperate lover’s whispered songs?
Who said we are
running barefoot over red-hot iron
with a fistful of childhood rain? That
we will, at the end, hand over
our keys to the same rain?
Who said men, once dead,
grow younger entering another Time? That
all the birds that vanished at the sunrise
will return when the world ends?
Who said we would
understand everything without anyone
telling us anything? That still
we would not share anything with anyone?