Another day slain.
Puddles of blood wash the Ganges red,
dismantling heaps of filth,
metal ash, acid stains,
entails, un-formalin-ed, and
The tinkers are home. Rag-picking kids
doze in evening schools -a
bright eyed spark in the mediocrity-
dish-wash pavements: red,
green polka-blinks, all day
amusing foreign lenses documenting poverty.
Oily vermilion stains on
Banyan barks, empty
Ghats expecting apparitions of the
British Raj, some tawny eyes glaring
at far-away shores
beyond spice money, exotic whores.
Tide-fed moss licks my feet,
liverworts hum lullabies,
lights zoom across the suspended bridge-
a blur of lines, rounds,
and smoke, just gleam and glitter,
The monsoons have gone,
erasing blemishes from her watery face,
scrubbed smooth, a satin
velvety red, rippling, whispering
too many words, to
identical shores, till business goes to bed.
I sit alone, mourning none, listening to silence.
© Mohana Das
i. One Single Impression- http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/
ii. Carry on Tuesday- http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/2011/10/carry-on-tuesday-128.html