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Hospital slow talks woman,
Breaking darkness bit by bit

Lift groans ,on the first floor,
With a wheelchair to biopsy.

The fat woman smiles faintly
In phone first hint of a smile.

Flesh watches television of flesh
On the goings- on inside bones

And laughs faintly in curled lips,
A biting sarcasm hid in corners.

You are quite a thing, as a black crow caws
A big thing vertically split by a mind’s shaft

In sky rings of a white smoke, falling deeply
In love, at times, with just a being beautiful.

Your everyman touches on the raw nerves,
Street men who are not yet the real people.

Where echoes rebound, the tree is bare
Of spring leaves, roots bony in the earth

Its birds defeathered of love and chicks
An eagle is on roof in echoes of tragedy.

Unhappiness echoes wingspan of flight.
Well into a music goat shouts in its skin.

An echo from the sounds of mountains
Where once a grazing went on to infinity.

The table spread your kitchenware
With a delicious food for the guest.

Now, dimple smiles in a dark cave
As you seem to summon the living

Among whom I count myself so far
And wish you good night and hello.

(After reading the poem Negative By Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak)

This boy in yellow knowlege robes
Makes face at our cumulative folly

As we are giving alphabet to baby.
His pantomimic face riles our folly

The way he distorts reality of baby,
The way he debunks all knowledge.

A bearded man fought for a useless truth
In a blazing skyscraper vaporising bodies

In fall of truth struck by planes of beards
When in direct contact with burning god.

I have not made war nor burning enemies.
It is our Krishna who did it, blue as our sky.

We keep to-do lists booming
And complex with offshoots

Of more lists, more booming.
We have sheep legs waiting

To recount ,where we left off
In a brown valley of boredom.

In all your page’s disappearance
Poem is random act of kindness.

As a sun disappears like a page.
Soon there will be another page

Opening as suddenly on the sea
As if there is a method in all this.

A crowd of strangers of mystery
Faces mixing their mystery past

With my present, steeped in dark
Women in red hospital uniforms

Pushing wheelchairs,in and out ,
Their pasts mixed with present

Old doctor is not shuffling feet,
He who stands on men’s bones.