Speak to me of moments which turn ephemeral in the play of light
Red, pale brown or golden.
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.
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.
Speak to me of change of tides.
The infinity of oceans
Revolutions of peace
Fearlessness of words.
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
I know you don't peddle cures.
But, there must be a shrine somewhere for endings.