the dusted elegy of smitten ashes

Steal compassion from a tread over pebble
from old wax i carved a sloppy figure
Of eyes and ears; to hear and see better
Mine, were lost in the war.

Of comrades and battalions
of enthusiastic souls of the soil
who ravaged the battle grounds.


Ask the muddy waters
soaked now in sanguine pallor
blood of honor,
Sea weed and ethos
An entire race left behind
as we fought at the gates.


Likewise are the pawns you set after me
of memoirs and memories
And if I could rid myself of these
I’d stoop to burning my own skin,
the biggest of my sins.

And upturn the pentacles
while you burn down the sanctum of me
And a plethora of colors burst open through
In an epitaph of withered flowers
adorning my once long hair

That i chopped mercilessly
As they now slither the wet floor
I remember the journey up hill.

To the church of Iyatha
where we worshiped union
And practiced devotion.

Uproot the cross of faith and stab my wounds
But don’t un bury the grave we so romantically,dug out.
To fall in and sleep the last of ruin
To embrace immortality.

Alas, the mud lay scattered
the scene battered
Life beneath the crux of death
Where even hell feared to go.
I swum the shores to the epicenter
And let myself drown in its pull.
Like pulling and being pulled
Like soft feathers raining down my ears
And covering my eyes as you lead me on.
And I followed like the deaf would the blind.
And maybe in return i did reap
As my legs were burned and my crutches thrown
into the hungry fire.
And now i bite marshmallows with the vigor of
smitten stones, crushing, pulp of who I could be in us.
and the sea serpents in my eyes
coil around, mid neck
and to slumber they bring forth
after gulps of airless swallows
and they chirped on winter's night
and we ended with my breath
into the depths of the earth
beneath, composted.
as hail stones melted
in the air and rained on us
because of the warmth emanated from mother
as I finally proved how much of a son
i could be to the soil.
in the cleft of its arm

unlike pillows soft
they serenaded me just like those
nights we cocooned in cobwebs and watched
meteors as I lay rested in your arms.
but this elegy gathers dust before
its over
and so do words as they burn
because paper is just another enemy
to me, words and we.

Because.

my secrets that were fantastical dreams to your ears
like lullabies of children who's old men fought the revolution.
and visits of wallowing pride to graveyards and morgues.
let me design a wreath of honor worn across my forehead as thorns.
and if fullstops were seen by you between my sobs.
you'd know i don't speak like chewing gum.
but for all that was spent and all that is left to say.
i will run.
run through the wind,away.

Manirambha.

She sat across the courtyard, in a palanquin of sandalwood embellished with metal trinkets.
Polished in finest dyes scented with jasmine and ylang ylang.
Peeping out from its intricately carved arch which just let an observer,notice the aura around the penumbra of her porcelain chin sinking into the depths of her throat, as the waterfall of her hair was,falling onto her shoulder and cascading across the bones that gave way to the pits of her heart,ornamented on her bosom.

As royalty from the berried sunskies in Manhattan now her feet ascended onto the land of Maya.
Of snake charmers and ebony skinned women and ripened raw mangoes.

She had come back to roots.

Her mother was the god child where the sun kissed the sand on this side of the earth.
She belonged here , just like her mother had till providence took her away to the land of the equal opportunist.
Her mother was the love of the brigadier who came on a pleasure visit to India.

he was white,though.
So she went along.

But Manirambha felt the familiarity of this red soil.
Like the wisdom and pathos of this soil had been passed on to her through the umbilical.

Of this courtyard.
Where being enchanted was a familiarity.
Of ghungru sounds and sweet smelling withered flowers swiveling in the dust storm of noon.
Or temple bells that rang in unison at the movement of the dancer of the evening.

Each of them could be an idol adorned on a stupa.
Frail sanctity and diligence personified.
They danced like a maestro was performing his best composition, alas to an audience of farmers who don't know anything about its brilliance.

And thus they were but danseuse of a forbidden world.
The ones that were always talked about during silence and in stupor with ale and alcohol.
They ones that saved many families and sustained many men.
The ones that will be condemned even in the future.
The women who did what every other woman does without her own will at least once.
The ones that are damned to be nailed against the cross of society.

Only because they belonged to another world.
Alongside our own.

Just like the trembling belief in the paranormal.
Today, tomorrow and hereafter they will wait to be freed like her own mother.
The ones that die and become one with the soil they served for.

This was the land where sex sold mercilessly and bodies were but a trade.
Where the heart was ripped into five and thrown across like morsels to a beggar.
Where the mind and mouth were opened and so was the conscience drowned.

So much so that it is today a verbal assault to us normal ones.
To compassion and its absence.
To death of diligence.
The epitome of ignorance and the proof of our heartlessness.