Someday little light gets into rooms
measure the buoyancy
The soft voice of the wind wipes the dust
of unforgivable desert inside,
Those ripped out notes, keep it tuned
listening to the walls braces whine,
Morning rays give birth to freedom and hope
meet outline of the dusk’s glow,
Why ever people want to go move out?
windows chase butterflies in tow
Aging unsettles into streams of memoir
ebbs and flows, unravels the pristine landscape.
©gopallahiri
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Grey moments
cannot tell the difference
no one is sure how
we should look at each other,
a stream runs
among the rocks,
the unbuilt bridge
wants our footprints
one image overlaps
another, golden dreams
come knocking at
our invisible door.
At one level, the
empty boat has presence and depth
we can see trees
on the hill top,
calm, shadowy, a
touch sensitive-
wait for flowers
to blossom,
images of earth
falling on tranquil water
where are our
buried roots?
There is a gentle
restraint now on high-pitched words
days give us rain,
nights not so easily,
fresh clumps of silent
laughter resonate,
wait for the
breeze to turn into angel’s voice,
we feel we are
secure; we feel we are safe
but life sometimes
thinks otherwise, draws different contours.
©gopallahiri
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Echo City
I believe I can breathe and my city can understand,
turning back to itself again and again to unveil
where loneliness begins.
A murmur is brewing,
humming of the pigeon, the plastered wall, wooden
doors
pause, stumble and repeat sound of dreams,
desolate and frantic,
homeless people run market stalls, make to do with
the pavement at night.
grey and grey skies,
aware of the low clouds in constant conversation with
the
peanut sellers, street cleaners and beggars,
In celluloid frames,
knowing the shade and hideout under balconies
the roadside painter is in search of address.
Darkness envelopes the trees
the city is awake to see if this is dimness before
dawn or the light before the dusk.
Here if I care to listen,
the slum girls are breaking into their own stories
there is no perfect ending.
Two histories are happening,
the inner and outer, the private in the public,
my city erases the bruises and longings.
.
©gopallahiri
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