Monsoon In Madras


The first rain dissolves time
slipping to the dark afternoon that many years ago
the moment lost in the crevices of memory.
I sat in my room
lit by the phosphorous sky of lightening
reading Ezra Pound.
Dark runnel of water
flowed under my window,
the mango tree creaked with dampness
sighing wearily with years of barrenness.
Gloom curled in the corners of my room
my mind was fatigued searching the seed of desolation.  

 

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