From the days when
Coal –colored juvenile wagon moved slowly
Crawling along the tracks
She has been with me
Like a horse galloping parallel.
She it is who,
In morns I woke up unmindful of the clock
Bumped into me in the very first thought
From the opposite direction
To leave me exhausted, sapping all my vitals.
It is her thoughts that make me ruminate
Immature over my inferiority,
Sipping on boredom along the bosom of the day.
It is indeed due to her gushing into me that
My body heat rises and lips tremble
When the atmosphere goes a bit cool.
Vain deeds that grow clear from those
Singular trunk trees that wouldn’t bloom in summer either
Are sure to find extinction in her.
And she alone is responsible for its melting out
Like the insomniac desert
After spring downpours.
Night is an island for me-
A vineyard island that doesn’t erect
Barriers or neighbors between me an her.
In the midnight, she is a wild stream down the hills,
And I, the white stone on its way up the hill.
I transform myself in defense against her,
And she, as a savage torrent lustily overpowering me.
When another morn gasps in
We set out again from that same station
As the Thakshakas that repeat themselves.
Sitting in one of the seclusions
That brings the fire of country breweries,
Smell of vodka, and taste of bhang
Taking count of depravity, passing judgments,
I would swallow her absence as a parching summer.
As the unconscious is uprooted,
Dreams are over leaped, to reach reality
She would have left behind in the bed
just a kiss of enchanting taste.