Those godowns,
gracefully silent in its
typically humid
and mouldy past glory.
They once fed my father,
his mother;
and her grandson twice,
or even thrice, I hardly remember...
They fed aspirations:
A few were to play football,
many to trudge Westward,
and some to fight for
small pieces of land,
hoping to find peace in Kochi,
salvation in her fresh fish
and dream-gilded sunsets.
An unknown bricklayer’s toil,
these walls;
they get abstract splashes:
Geometric visions, asymmetric missions,
reflecting the incongruent,
esoteric aspirations of
a town lost to time, tourism,
and a migratory identity crisis.
And yes...
Art breathes life into them all.
Is there more to
the Biennale than what
meets the pilgrim’s gaze?
Yes... And yes, No!
For we are damned
to feel the waves, and creation
in fleeting, attention-starved steps
that warrant selfies for posterity.
The immortal light?
The laborer and the artist?
Obscurity at sunset, yes… In the
long shadows of coffee shops.
Yet, yes...
Art breathes life into them all.
-- Leslie
