memory edits time

Its an un-arranged shelf 

we call the self; it dusts 

the splinters of dreams, 

assigns a corner for 

broken words and colours 

which blossom through in 

a tired night. The music 

hangs like an elegy

to a rusted day, the 

dust of a story rubs over 

the shoes and you fall 

in the arms of a stranger. 

The past as alien as an 

absurd work of art floods 

through this foreign country 

reminding you of a face, 

and a day when collapsing

across failed words a pen 

refused to write. Memory 

edits time.

A morning arrives

On the chiseled streets of morning

an infinite patience wraps its arms

in the flowing breeze, the morning workers

gather whispers for the night, sip their

coffee on tired lanes, the garbage trucks have

long arrived, the guzzling of machines, the dumping

of cans and the idle chatter of the machine men

all merge in the endless suffering of the morning.

Only the sparrow reminds of the lost fantasy of the

night, and the splitting hair, the known nightmare of the

day. The rush of the morning smells from broken houses;

aroma of kneaded bread burning on the ovens, the smell

Of onion, slowly tasting the lost charms of garlic and

a chili descending in the chaos in the kadhai.