Autophony

اي ﺳﺎﻛي ﺗﺠﻬي ﻛﻴﺎ ﻏﻢ, ﺗﺒﺮي ﻣﺴﺠﺪ ﻣﻴﻦ ﻣﻴﭙﺮﺳﺘﻮﻥ. ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ ﺗﻴﺮا ﻛﺎﺭﻭﺑﺎﺭ ﻣﺪاﻡ ﺭﻫﻴﮕﺎ, ﺩﻧﻴﺎ ﻣﻴﻦ ﻣﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ ﺗﻴﺮﻱ ﻭﺣﺸﺖ ﻛﻲ ﻟﻴﻲ ﻭﻗﺖ ﻛﺴﻲ ﻫﻲ, ﺗﻮ ﺑﺲ ﺁﺏ ﺷﺮاﺏ ﺑﻬﺎﺗﻲ ﺟﺎ ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﺑﺪﻭﺵ ﻃﻠﺐ ﻫﻲ, ﺟﻮ ﺯﻧﺪﮔﻲ ﻣﻴﻦ ﺷﻜﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ‎ Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

back from vacation I fly into mother's arms... unwashed hill of clothes

Sunrays seep through bus windows, loneliness turns to universal dissolution.

Office noise. Whirring A/C. Staring at the screen. Motionlessness.

Bittersweet music — Golden oriole on Barren mango tree.

I haven't, in a long time, bled myself. I haven't scratched flesh, watching in dread fascination, grotesque shapes burning, searing, yearning, dying and birthing themselves. I haven't watched the blots spread into new territories of being I dread to enter. I haven't, I haven't watched meanings do their morbid dance, preen in their vanity or thrash about or flail limply even. I haven't stood by to watch the reek of ambushed dreams rot by the roadside, the gutter-water rushing over them. I haven't, in a long time, bled myself.