Tommorowless shadows linger in the wake of broken dreams,
And I buy a piece of cloud in a black polythene bag,
Then I let it go, let it rain. A puddle forms, I've seen its birth.
Come O' King of seasons, but tiptoe your way
And bring the winds along but walk them softly,
This is a funeral sir, the crows caw.
Blow some flowers along, not the beautiful ones
But the half-bloomed, some withered or scorched slightly wet with dew.
The puddle grows, ripples battle for supremacy in the mud, one eats the other, another merges with another.
Remove your slippers sir, this is an Indian(?) funeral
Let not the winds blow away the sighs of sorrow
Let the cuckoos sing only their Shoka Ragas
And the bees may live by telling tales of sorrow.
Offer the half-bloomed here, where the boy took the bullet
And the withered ones there, where the old man got his throat slit.
The rain slims, the puddle shrinks. Have the ripples started worshipping me yet?
(I took the shard of the sky to the pawn shop in white polythene)
You do your heart sir, but have some manners,
Keep your steps silent and cover your tracks
After.
~Ajay
16/8/18
