This day, after all,
Isn’t sterile.
She bears an empty shadow with it always…
Neither the night is all alone
She tugs some untold tales with her
Skiing either over the eyelids
Or the shoulders of a myriad dreamers.
You need the day
Whenever you hang the welts of the night, by heart.
Night is the soothing balm of butter
For the fissures of the day!
***
Somebody has put on several suns on night’s face
This morning, somebody is struggling to muffle his face.
***
Time is not desolate;
Seems mischievous so long as you fail to grasp.
The night
Which strewed scissored dioramas all through
Seems to essay driving the day out.
Only the lake which blooms on its own
Knows how silently the night retires
Whenever it is pricked by the thorns of day
***
All through the night…
A pro plaints of nail pinches;
A street dog flounders about
To find room in the clock tower’s niche;
A perplexed old soul fails to fathom
The connection between old age and loneliness;
A forlorn lass fancies to catch the meteors in her palm;
Befuddled about its destiny, a letter languishes in the post box;
The night…prolongs with its end-less stories.
***
No night says quits
To its endeavor to scribble its tale on day’s page.
All her words are chiseled in bald phonemes
And her tales are records of exploitation of naked bodies.
The night has grown old. It can no longer write or sing.
Let us leave the night to the darkness…
.
Srinivas Vasudev
Telugu,
Indian
- Image Courtesy: Srinivas Vasudev
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