sits against me an empty broken chair,
midnight shivers in the shivering cold,
a nicotinic smoke chasing the air.
A distant radio plays the music of the nineties,
those rowdy, nonsensical, chaotic songs,
songs that sing through the chambers of my age,
parts of which my nostalgia lives on.
I stand intensely engaged in a monologue,
reaching out to every unvisited corner of me,
disturbed by a plenty atrocities in the dark sky above,
resurrecting as the silence I fake to be.
The smell of a young omelette on a fry pan,
mixed with the drizzle on the outskirts of Bombay,
equipped with Pink Floyd, Eliot, and Einstein,
yet the lunatic's Delhi seems far away.
She creeps into a thunder of events, which
follows me from a city to another,
I am nothing more than a blinded nothingness,
trembling on a path to where we are together.
Also published in the October 2011 edition of Kritya - available here.
