Citizen Rain and Those Khichuri Days
From an earthen pitcher, a few intimate letters
fly away as birds, written in the language of water.
Flowing across the breast of the R?-manobi in the bridal chamber,
the leaves from the story of the wild rose in the eyes of the forest doe
cause no loss of life.
A blue whale rises
from the Pacific Ocean and plays football
with a village boy. Then no one remembers
the cup of the melancholy emperor. On the restless heads
of cows and buffaloes, I too keep sprinkling holy water
and continue searching for
the botanical life of unmarried kholamkuchis.
Citizen rain and those khichuri days
had increased the fertility
of my disappearance
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