Sunday- the day when you can beYourself- and not let be ruled –A day to do what you wish to doAnd not what others want you to do.Sunday – the day one could readEven the most insignificant adA day you need brush your teethOnly when you want to eat.I have a little duster, of softSynthetic bristles – to dustThe books, tables or the shelvesAnd an old torn shirt to swipe them clean.There’s something about cleaning,Dusting, tidying up and swiping.A fleck of dust, a blotch of stain,A crack that weren’t there before.
There is a method to starting a bike.A deliberateness, a pause, before every step.Keenly detecting flecks of dust, dried droppingsOf crows, of oil leaked and sticking like pasteMixed, with the finest of grainsWiping it all clean.Flipping back the stand, inserting the keyAnd turning it right, assured of the green light,You depress the lever; throttle closed,Carefully pressing your foot down on the kickerYou pause – again, before bringing it down againGently, but firmly and swiftly,Listening to the plug catching a spark.As the engine sputters to life, you listen to the thuds, even.With such intimacy, with almost love, you listen
In the night, listening to the soundsOf rain drumming on the tin roof,To the crashing cymbalsOf dried branches of the Mango tree falling,To the shattering boom of coconutDropping like a cannon ball -And the wail of the windAnd the croak of the frogs –The patter of rain on the cemented courtyardAnd to the sour, sullen silences of the night -Looking, mind empty of thoughts, lookingAt the seeping water drippingThrough the cracked tiles on the roofAnd running down the wall -At the puddle growing, movingSlowly like a serpent across the floor -
The space of the world is immense, before me and around me;If I turn quickly, I am terrified, feeling space surround me;Like a man in a boat on very clear, deep water, space frightens and confounds me.I see myself isolated in the universe, and wonderWhat effect I can have. My hands wave underThe heavens like specks of dust that are floating asunder.I hold myself up, and feel a big wind blowingMe like a gadfly into the dusk, without my knowingWhither or why or even how I am going.So much there is outside me, so infinitelySmall am I, what matter if minutelyI beat my way, to be lost immediately?
Long vast shapes... cooled and flushed through with darkness....Lidless windowsGlazed with a flashy lusterFrom some little pert cafe chirping up like a sparrow.And down among iron gutsPiled silverThrowing gray spatter of light... pale without heat...Like the pallor of dead bodies.
A Wife -- at daybreak I shall be --Sunrise -- Hast thou a Flag for me?At Midnight, I am but a Maid,How short it takes to make a Bride --Then -- Midnight, I have passed from theeUnto the East, and Victory --Midnight -- Good Night! I hear them call,The Angels bustle in the Hall --Softly my Future climbs the Stair,I fumble at my Childhood's prayerSo soon to be a Child no more --Eternity, I'm coming -- Sire,Savior -- I've seen the face -- before!