Thursday, May 29, 2014


When the winding stairs to history
Suck people like blind men into it
I could feel the heaving and laughter
Of those girls who climb ahead of me,
Along with the smell of their oiled hairs;
Down there, with the sugar canes
Thirst also gets crushed and squeezed.

Atop the four minarets as usual
Pigeons and people talk about love
And complaints; on the walls
Where graffiti is banned, there lay dead
Names and endless obscenity
Burqa clad streets pierced by gazes

Mangos ripened by chemical agents
Yellowed beliefs in beautiful arrays
Like the players drowned in concentration
On either side of a chess board
Religions, beggars and merchants

Climbing up to the history is easier
While coming down muscles pull at thighs
Ahead of me still I hear the panting and laughter
Of the girls who carry oil smell in their hairs
All the monuments swallowed by cities

Are like this only; do not slip while coming down. 

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