April had come , ever so soft
The gentle tiptoeing on the winter leaves , scattered
On the frigid outpourings of the bygone frosty night
The Spring of Joy , the Spring of Life
Breeding searching calls of the confused cuckoo
Out of the sterile silence of the morning bright.
Man , son of woman , born to the womb of a mother
Cradled to sleep by the unyielding sinews of her tired limbs
Man , born to April , breeding a thousand new sounds
A thousand new fears hitherto unfound.
Man , son of soil , child of war
Unrelenting , unforgiving , unabiding ,a thoughtless usurper .
Man , lustful of more , seeker of knowledge
Ransacking the deepest caverns ,a vagrant Pioneer .
He stopped at the lemonade stand
The dusty , ruddy pavement stared back
The piquant scent of her perfume wafted through
Infront , the Ghats of the Holy Ganges lay , this way she.
The shanty paved lanes ,leading to the holy waters to abide
The morning traffic fraught with the whispering murmur of a social divide
Her eyes , the gentle trickling of the scorching summer sweat
Flowing all the way down to her arms and knees
Her breath , a gentle reminder of that gentle Western Zephyr
Her protruding gaze ,like the overflowing drains , ever so hollow
Her lips , soft and red , in features curved by Michaelangelo
‘turn this way , and ,to the holy Ghats ,walk a mile
Or stay back , please , stay a while.’
The mist whirled around a while , and settled on her glass
She took it off , and wiped it clean , the condensed clear droplets
Aimlessly , floated around, and then , the sweet profusion of aromas
As the droplets ,now warm , dropped ever so softly on the coffee beans.
We dined at the Ber-b-que joint ,
A sinful platter of sauce and roasted-ribs
‘hoot , hoot ‘ said the swine , with his ribs and all
‘Isn’t that how an owl is supposed call?’
‘you may be the master , with your cunning and ways
And Man , destroyer , drown out the world in your fancy and sin
But to say what , you tell me not
I shall speak of my own free will .’
‘so what shall it be ‘ asked the waiter , with a suit to dabble
‘so what shall it be ‘ asked she , her eyes ,still the gentle trickle –trickle
And there was still time for a little wafer and frife,
‘Let it be a pointed fork , and a knife to fight’.
And we walked through the deserted alcoves
Wrapped in woolens and stoles ,to fight off the cold
As the fog swarmed around us ,growing ever so warm,
With the longing embrace of a good old friend
The phony false alarm , and the dim lantern glowing overhead.
He stared at us with unrepressed envy , the ever-smiling moon
Floating in the bleak black background , a child’s lost balloon.
Let us walk now , through the labyrinth of dingy streets
And fade into the abyss of the muttering retreats
Tired , panting , ‘can you feel my warm breath upon your bones’
As the blinking streetlights stare out of their glass encased homes.
‘let us go now , and vanish into the confusion of narrow by-lanes
The dingy cubicles of a cheap six pence hotels
As the ever so dim night-lamp shall shine
Let us go now, my love, and lie entwined ‘.
A new morning shall dawn , dressed in red
And all colours bloody hate can paint.
Gods shall send their human mercenaries to fight
Another river shall flow , the eternal divide.
On that side Phlegethon shall you stand , on this side ,I .
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