Sunday, April 19, 2015

Musings from a city

# Porto is a surreal experience. The magic where it comes from: is it the narrow alleys, or the river merging into the ocean, the streets which have stories known or the heroic tales whispered or the stories untold? Can you figure it out in such a city? A melange of people from different cities? 

#The receding sea dries 

your hair, I had an ocean
in mind when I opened
my arms, but the waves
were rough for the night.

# Where does your eye meet the wind? does it see the parting of its lips when it whispers to the ocean? Does the wind hesitate before it parts with its songs? Was the free wind just an imagination of a caged mind? 

#I see the wind melting in the music of your desire, the river severs its melancholy in the babble which rises in the mixed tongue. the lone guitarist with cymbals carving a song, as the city lights descend for the moment under the lamp which rests in the shadow of my pen. The lights are yet to arrive in the window of words, I dust them everyday, recite it like small change, that drops in the coin box of the beggar standing by the sidewalk, the cyclist are unsure and the couples with hand in hands as I remember a story I shared with a stranger. 

# I drink this world around your shadow, it must not have been the same when you were here, people waiting and the glass is empty, the girl looks at me but avoids my glance, it was never the same. I was never alone on this table, if you cover the glances of the man sitting far away from my eyes, you will see he is not watching, no words attempt to reach me here, whose mistake was it that I came this way? 

#I dread to remove the napkin, the table is so full of words and all that is funneled through never reaches me, yet how did they pick up the paper and write a word on it? I can't decipher the silence from the other, my company with words disappeared the moment you left, am stranded along a highway which arches over a bridge, small yellow lights hanging by the side, a narrow sidewalk threatening to merge with the road, the train travels and shakes the bridge, yet it does not fall apart, never does, yet my legs stutter even when I had nothing to drink. the river lies thirsty in its bed yet merging in the ocean without a desire. Love would yet have come here if I did not turn the road into a song. 

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