Poetry
In a South Indian restaurant
I resolved to be a poet for her.
She became a gazal in return.
First silence is poetry than words.
To unearth the roots
of a banyan
is never easy.
Chop or hack. The old banyan
with the roots spread
over a century.
(Shimla 19 June 2001)
They stand.
Tall.
Mute.
Now
since hundred years
bearing witness
with silent hills
that will not speak
The map of India burns
with flames of passion
when fire is set
against mid-day. You search
the city, lost
in a mirage. The sun fumes.
There is only heat and dust.
