By now you should know that the song has been sung
from the bare-leaved tree of summer
pining for your lips to murmur
the elegy of the shadows getting aged with every past seconds
and whether within the timeframe of your house
the sun still shines on cloudy days, peeling onion skins,
slicing the flesh and pleading for those teardrops
that i have dried with my tongue and traced your rapturous profile.
Whether on those days naked pavement children
still play with hunger and stones
margining their life and hugging their pale emotions
close to the railway tracks.
By now the sea of green will have made love with the sky of blue
which you and i know was the common expression shared
between one layer of night and the other.
You might have gathered all your aphorisms
but one that bled green from the mango tree
whose roots lay suspended in a rectangular angle
joining the runaway night with the approaching dawn.
In the midst of these the designer store
might have been transformed into a call-girl den
where gigolos served whisky on the rocks
for an extra buck and the used condoms lay huddled
in the trash bin,
sleepy-eyed, washed corn-flour smell of hot flesh
but still sticky to the rim
whisperingly sharing their stories of froth,
blend of panted breaths and perspirations.
At this time the panty and the brief
might have eloped on a temporary contract
gliding hand in hand over sleeping pavement dwellers
huddled in question-mark fashion,
over the many-tired pollution of the city,
even breaking traffic rules
when the slow-escaping aroma of coffee
from the closed coffee shops
mingles with the still-lingering smell of urine from the wall
and reach their nostrils.
So grotesque are the times that they see
broken lines.
By now you might have sharpened you pen
and put ink in your pencil
and colored your teats to a firmament blue;
the whistle-less train might have reached your destination
waiting for the smell of your after-bath body
waiting to hide in your nooks and cranniies’
The birds brought the smell of the sea
and the fish might have outlived the very salt
they were birthed with.
And you might be wondering the reason
For my writing this song.
It is the only live contemplation
I gave myself
to choose between my shadow and sunshine
and solitudes of quietness
when churches lost their Sunday aroma
with Saturday winning over
in the election of rest.
This I tell you not to conform
to the confirmation of doubts
but that my soul yearns to seal the contract
of togetherness in loneliness
solitudes in togetherness
the way the sky weeps at a rakish angle
shedding its light and water
in its wholeness of together-solitudes.
