The time is nearing to leave.File – save as – give a nameAnd it becomes a partOf my documentsHidden behind a passwordWhich I only know.In the recesses of my hard disksC:\ My documents\ Kottayam, or-Some other name that I declineTo tell you.Later, in a lonely nightI will access the fileAnd glance through itAt random.This flower, that faceThis light that flicker in the darkness
Drowning, choking, slowly killingMyselfIn the swirling waters of currency notesBeneath the debris of credits and debitsSettling downInto the mud of greed, of breach of trust,Of bribes and frauds and distrustSinkingInto the quicksand of speculationsHopes of life bursting like bubbles of my breath –I dream -Of snow-capped mountains…
In the air-conditioned chill of the officeIn the desktop picture of Mount EverestIn passwords like Ganga, YamunaBadri, Kailas or Manasarovar -Leafing, surreptitiously, through the books on treksTo Himalayas and wildernessDreaming meandering throughRhododendrons and snow bound paths-I imagine the sips of water from my bottleTo be that of the streams in the mountains.It is really so easy; all I have to doIs to get up from my seatLeave the complaining customerWalk over to the window at the rear of the officeAnd look up at the skies…
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.