I wish the roads had left a sign for me
Behind turns, the silent omen stays
Kissing dreams to muted destiny
And in the monsoon fireflies keep calling
The bridge burns, singing rhymes of love and sorrow
Leaf by leaf, my ciphered words start falling
A cradle grows for the poems of tomorrow
As omens rise in smoke and dust and stones
The hungry road now takes a nameless bend
It whips me to a bag of broken bones
And leaves a new beginning at my end
Post Script : The image and the poem, though created almost half a year apart, seem to be tied by a common theme. I found this man sitting in one of the busiest niches in Calcutta during the Durga Puja (the biggest festival of the region) of 2012. Loudspeakers tore apart the wind, oodles of wasted popcorn became the buttery snow, and this man sat under a scorching sun not seeming to care a bit about the colours around. He caught my attention while I was crossing the street, and not surprisingly enough, he never looked up when I was taking the picture, or afterwards. No one cared about the man, not even he himself.
I felt the road was hungry, and the man was her meal. Or maybe, the other way around.
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