the colour harmony!!

History is to be noted in moments Christmas break in a trench Raindrops in a burial ground.  Night without crickets  City without graffiti And skylarks without skies. Or the Corns, wind, women,  Sojourns and suntan Evenings secluded to oneself  and black coffee. thoughts like birds Seagulls crossing  thresholds of borders  on your skin. The half tint canvas Where stories procreate One after the other Of lips, hips and red streams Of bullets and bullshits Of Demons and Demi-gods Of Pope and the Peepal  Of love and lie. History is no more history But a child's game of  war and loss and war Sticks and mulberry crowns Of you and me and other lives.

                I Today as I kiss my son, and he blush and we laugh joyfully, I think of my own eighth year when nobody kissed me as a kid, yet held me close, drew me in to in-between spaces and loved me as a woman                                  II The man I married asks me, “Do you know? How ugly you look when you hiss at your son?” and he reminds, “He is a man and you a woman, so better arrest your anger.” I am at once, jealous of my son’s manhood at seven and wonder, if a woman in labor is equally ugly with her facial muscles rigid choked throat and shivering patience.                  III That day, after ...

Now, I need to understand There is Charm, in solitude  Not the made up one, in a melancholy base For love and loss and poetry, but  that which jell on to your skin Like tattoos of desire and sin. This is how two ports should drift away, Like planes of tectonic movements Each one designing a continent of its own  Of candle lights and islands. Latitudes on your body And shipwrecks on your shores. There is no other side  for an exhausted love But, the grabbing chill. Your abdomen, Like a million spiders birthing  As you gaze out of yourself  from a long distance train