My comrades are silent!


white eyes of Bellagio Suites

stare into the crisp shadows hiding me–

forming from men hanging their day’s spent

on parallel lines of black cable wires

their now drenched, detergent smelling jerseys

leaves puddles on hot terraces.


While, I stand

Smell of coffee wafting

the yellow lights yellower than a jaundice patient

brighten more than the neighbor;s dusty car

I feel breezy

and hear caressing. Like waves falling one on top of other.

forming a effervescent froth on the top; a taste of saline

Fish pickled in vinegar.


But honestly, these silent beings,

made of flesh and concrete

steel and blood

stand uncomplaining

to my constant chatter

only speaking among the shadows

their long bodies cast.


But when I look,

far and wide;

a city far away

with far less people

with nevertheless, a million lights.



Silencing of the city

In a city far away,

and a cottage above the hill,

Where red dust from arecanut flies.

and time spins webs

Into time.


Streaks of lights,

Pass through the window

Onto the pot of coffee

Boiling till the brim.


The wind rustles and whistles,

In and through.

The spaces and ditches.

where the trees part ways.


Where the symphony of birds,

Mingles with the sound of a stream;

Glistening under the yellow sun,

Hiding above

the canopy of blue mountains.


Where men and women

Walk with sickles in their hands

Sharper than the tiny stones

Stuck in their nails, along-with dirt.


And everyone who sees a black cloud-

Yells or screams

dogs hide under the pile of woods,

moths spiral outwards,

Out of a tiny hole.


Among all these you can hear,

shrieks and whispers

of the silencing of a city.

A Ash(cz this is not your regular grammatical error)

A fire burns the paper

Paper pulped from the tree

Tree chopped into wood

Wood dropped in the fireplace

Warm, cozy grandma stiches and knits

The cold, soft wool into the warm breath.


Smoke arising from the buildings

Throws away the ashes of paper

Imprinted with words

Words or the soul?

They all cry.


My glasses are grim

With the soot from this city

Motor engines hooting smoke

Burn in ecstasy at the fire


Fire catches my dress

Dress knitted from yarn

Yarn from a slaughtered animal

The animal within me or the soul?

They all cry.


My bed is strewn with ashes

Ashes from men smoking

Ashes of burnt bodies

Ashes from the fireplace


Yet on a cold and clear night

And a stormy rainy night

I like to smoke a cigar

And watch the ashes fall off.