On the hills the berries would appear and it is time for you kids to bleed your palms. They were your yesterday’s moon-flowers when their milk spilled like soft moonlight lightly sour but fragrance to memory.
Beware, terror thorns bleed for real. Let it be cold blood in your rat’s teeth, not on your pudgy schoolboy fingers with the telltale homework ink stains.
The sun may slip and fall off the edge ,he who had filled all this purple pride. Hurry to bleed pockets but not shins.
We saw one or two rocks springing from grass. They will grow to adulthood in a millennium. In the meanwhile , some cacti of red flowers overwhelm them. Here about the green bench there is sogginess with shoe prints imprinted in a random impressionistic way. There is wet green of the trees looking down.
The man with the sun topee is talking on phone to someone whose train is two hours late. This is the very person who had sat by the lake sometime ago offering sacrifices to his dead. The lake was then flooded with dawn. A middle man sat between him and the spirits offering to reach his prayers to them.
All the while middleman spoke mantras in Sanskrit . The souls of the dead understood only Sanskrit, although they had died only recently and were speaking regional languages till they breathed their last.
She who had warmed our old stomachs dropped a pomegranate in our palms . Pomegranates save a lot of forgetting. Mom had her own things to forget against a white wall of a dark night. She bumped into the wall of forgetting .
Luckily she did not forget where her hand was, unlike the other woman who shuffled her feet like early morning birds. Or the other woman who forgets where she hid her comb in dishevelled hair.
Another woman who had no pomegranates forgets where she had left her baby in the Saturday market.
And now even after many pomegranates we keep forgetting where our mom hid her shadows.