poetry, politics

THE UNTiTLED

And he no longer stares through the window at the herd or the gang that passes below his house, daily. The dogs are a lot more now, everywhere there is the smell of piss and excretion and among them is the howl, a howl that can be heard but does not register to the head, it loses its frequency near the ears. And with the gang of dogs is the crowd. Kashiv doesn’t care for it anymore, for him it is just a certain hour of the day, and then he doesn’t have to look at the watch to know what time it is. Now, he refuses to be a part of the noise.

Kashiv hurriedly writes a few lines on a paper, folds the paper into a plane and throws it out of the window towards the passing crowd and the howling dogs, the plane flies on an automatic mode, on its own; it seems the plane has a mind of its own, its sure where it wants to be, where it needs to be. The plane lands on the head of a woman. Frightened, what fell on her head, the crowd disperses thinking it to be an atomic bomb in all their drunken stupor. The woman, who had taken the plane off her head and now held it in her hand, stood under the bank building, alone. The Rally of people is lost and forgotten. She reads:

 

Into the troubled and frippery wind,

Waiting for fruition among the guild,

Worked hard for the dilation to hide,

Caught in the pestilence, but the shiny side.

 

From the pettifogging at least now they’ll rise,

Phoenix, look at the crystal and be wise,

Rodent, there is a way in labyrinth of cries,

Oh Kashiv! Never waited for replies.

 

The woman reads and throws it out on the road, lost and forgotten.

 

 

 

Image courtesy: http://www.google.com

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