Goanna and Twilight
In the garment factory
bloom the
delicate young women.
I live in a rented house.
When the bear-dance
comes to an end,
drawing
zeros
again and again,
I must return
from the school
of the bees.
Rivers
brush their teeth
with neem twigs
deep within
their waters,
there is
a secret
world:
horses and fireflies,
and a rain-wet
shiuli tree,
a vast
fragment
of stone,
all alone,
beneath
the vastness of space.
The jellyfish boats
are returning home.
Beyond the rooftop
of the three-storeyed house,
a pine tree
stands,
in its own mood,
the monsoon clouds.
Having dived
deep into
the depths
of my own being,
near the burnt-out
stub of a cigarette,
I find myself
wondering:
Should I
write anew
Goanna and Twilight?
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