Space

 

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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