I watch the
pigeons play kho kho;
a dreary day, hot,
they face headwinds, life!
I cry, helpless,
where the hell have
I kept 'em keys
to the locker?
Yeah, there where
I've imprisoned my will to run!
Ah, the strides,
towards crashing waves,
always towards home
for a ripe mango,
to the art, words
and all things golden
— from the friendly sunset
to the angry yolk in
the half-cooked egg,
served with milk,
on humid Monday mornings
before I rush for fights.
Hardly do I play now,
I stare at open windows,
at the leaves who dance,
young and hearty,
while pigeons play;
yes, I've forgotten kho kho!
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| Picture courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi (instagram: @sreetamabagchi) |
