Some days ago, an old man with black bamboo legs and thin snowy hair picked up twenty kilograms of white stone for twenty rupees. He took it down the steps to dump it near the trucks by the river. I don’t know if he had a bed to lay on that night. He did not even have slippers on his cracked feet.
Not far from him, sat a homeless angel with the smile of a magazine cover model and the dirty covering of an African Chief- red, yellow, blue. His hair had probably remained unwashed for a year or two. But with all his dirt, he was beautiful.
Today, I watched him again. He was not smiling anymore. I wonder if he was hungry as he watched the young men who sipped cabbage soup some forty metres away.
On the other side of the highway, in a makeshift shack, a young boy sat and sold flour dumplings that his mother had made. The money would go to his father’s drinking perhaps. He and his mother would make do with leftover flour. (more…)
She saw everything in the starlight of another world. She could never make sense of ordinary things. She walked like it was dangerous. She heard only the sound of her own truth. She needed a love that was beyond what this earth could offer. She was made of starlight and she needed starlight love.
He could only give her what was left after fighting all the demons in the background.
It was maybe a year ago when I promised you I’d write poetry for you and till this day, you have not given me a single moment that would usher rhythmic sweetness. You gave me only moments of supreme disappointment.
A thousand times, I’ve told myself that you were not worth the knife in my back. So I pretended I was happy for the people you now call strawberry.
I wonder how many were before me and how many will come after. I should fly away and forget your gold dust.
Your eyes say things your heart does not know and in your mouth, I see a smile so beautifully crooked that it is now lost as I whisper truth in your ears. There is a life you do not know and I am a song your strings and cymbals can never play.
Your green jacket and yellow monogram, your glasses and mustache, your cash and cards – even your strings and cymbals – say you love me. And I should hold on to you, they say. I should love you back.
But I know the dreams you have been having. I know your fears. I know your truth. (more…)