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.