Stories of loneliness stay
warm inside my blanket, get
replaced without a sound.
Arms raised, a leafless tree
prays for its death.
I wish I understood those bird-songs
struggling to break free from the branches.
The windswept mirages of April
are starving the city-memories.
Occasionally, they simmer
to bathe in the Nor’westers.
The balconies and windows
of my house bring in impulses—
sounds of TV serials, some news debates,
a distant music, a raucous quarrel,
a mixed smell of dinner…
Inside, the snoring of my dog plays
with the tireless squeaking of the ceiling fan.
A pen scratches on paper
while the songs of insects try
to lift the mist
settling lazily over the city.
On the horizon, permeating the night—
a symphony of the quiet.
The Nameless Man
He is scooping milk from the road
to moisten the drought inside.
In these white flooded paths
there are no bends for discourses.
They empty kaleidoscopic dreams
into queues of migrants.
The uncombed gentleman who used to
sit outside our house everyday
is missing without a mention in my diary.
Nameless, defying the lockdown
he has left a whole story unfinished.