No midnight's dream declares summer for me,
I scout the light seldom
To see the marigolds grow humping the walls under the bridge
For I and darkness live mutually
Like gobies and shrimps, and I the shrimp and the blind
The days that bridge the transitions
From the cold to hot and then monsoon,
Dressed in sarks of change, do take a chance at my nose,
Rendering it incapable of smelling the musk roses that bloom at the nose of may
I know it's summer when my mother makes chapattis* and keeps them in a hotpot,
Placing it within a container containing water
Like islandifying an islet, to isolate it from the marching red army.
An army with soldiers drunk with kokam sharbath**
Dark in their bums, skin burnished by hardships of an anthill, antlers pointing up- at the future or the doom
But now I've lost summer's symptom,
The red army nibbled away the bread yesterday,
In this supposed winter
I thought the army is busy warming the dark in their bums
and watching grasshoppers and their guitars freeze outside in snow
Was the story fictional?
As fictional as climate change...
*A flat bread
** Kokum is fruit, which is preserved with sugar to form a bright red squash that is diluted with water and used as a beverage
~Ajay
16/12/17
