Saturday, July 30, 2016

Warsaw

Tathagatha,
Speak to me of moments which turn ephemeral in the play of light
Red, pale brown or golden.

Tathagatha,
Speak to me of illusions
Like the sweet or pungent or sour compote

Rains which wash away nothing
Centuries which walk like the endless wait of the traveller who will never reach anywhere.

Tathagatha,
Speak to me of those who have gone
And those who are yet to arrive.
The loneliness of roads
Jet lag of seasons
Anonymity of crowds.
.........
It is the season of pellets in the mountains
They stay awake night and day
Finding ways to count their dead
I file my taxes again
To buy the monsoon of pellets.

Tathagatha,
Speak to me of change of tides.
The infinity of oceans
Revolutions of peace
Fearlessness of words.
..........
Tathagatha,

Have you ever walked through centuries
Which tower over you in sand red and pale yellow?
Carrying the undead curse which won't float away with the aging of years.

Places spin inside head, journeys walk like fog, seasons fall like the nausea of dreams

Tathagatha,
I know you don't peddle cures.
But, there must be a shrine somewhere for endings.


Thursday, July 14, 2016

Berlin

Below me a cityscape floats
Blue like the tunes of an unsung song

Berlin-
We don't know each other
We have been strangers passing along, always in a hurry

You have never asked me my name
And, I have never asked you yours.
I have never held your hand in a map
And walked through your very straight roads, looking for nothing.

Your past, the people you lined up for the concentration camp
My future, my head in line before a rioting mob
I have always been careful to avoid eye contact
I am scared of the things I might see

But, amidst the trams, hustle bustle
I do have conversations that walk late into the night
Figuring the world we live in, exchanging traveller's tales
Friends who mean a lot, despite the kilometers and years

Tomorrow
I will be a tourist
I will walk through the graves you made
The walls you built and broke

Let us count our foibles
My penchant for wrong words
Your ugly buildings
My thoughts which ramble as incoherent words through strange alleys
Your cars which try to squash pedestrians.

But, before I catch the last train and leave, a few words

frozen yogurt-grave of Brecht-strange walk back when you feel a lot and nothing-conversations that I collect like miser's coins, to treasure and play back again-the shy Chinese girl who makes it her job to ensure that the lost stranger crawls through the city's traffic to the right tram-
Maybe, I could love you; if not for the history.