Conversations With Sandstone At Khajuraho
As the sun sets over your naked postures, bringing
twilight into Kichak’s frightful mouth, and yet, still you,
all of you, continue to dance in the dusk of eternal love.
It is hard to not bear witness to
Our own inconstancy, our own transience,
etched on the ticket of a bus we are to take at midnight.
As the digital camera freezes you in its pixelated frames,
and the heavily accented Guide builds legends of you
in our eyes, through imperfect stories made in
the edifice of a malleable past housing a broken hourglass
under the skies of collective memory.
It is hard to not bear witness to
our own inconstancy, our own transience
etched as an old love poem written for a forsaken beloved
not very long ago.
As stories seep into each other, while you continue to attempt
to fuse bodily, soulfully, into each other, how much ever,
stonily, and all of your life’s spectacles
play out in front of us slowly, very slowly.
It is hard to not see our Quotidian reflect in pieces
of your Eternity, and your eternity played out as
a break from our mundane; else, how are we to
fall in and out of Love again? How are we to
live, die and learn to live again?
As you visit our counted dreams with a
casual strut of a by-walker; and trespass our delicate
dreams with stubborn virtuosity from a time
that does not even exist anymore! It is hard to not
witness you make a mockery of Time
we clutch on to so dearly; by filling the vapid timelessness of our dreams
with infinite time; the lovelessness of a half-empty bed with
infinite Love.
In short,
This, my dear, is just not done.
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