During a paddy husk flying noon, from the corpse of a white-owl, gnat children

were stealing butter

with their hands having fragrance of rice crispies

picked up lightly the throttled shrieks of last akanda flowers

in the brittle breeze of Jaisalmer

sickly happy

at the spiraling city, blood drenched minute hand of wall clock

and the faces were beaming in wood fire warmth

pigeons fluttered making sounds of torn documents, just a bit

of living one’s own life

from those colours of sunset  eyebrows, on the sad boat at web-tide

dead body wrapped in coarse mattress

I walked towards the gold rimmed estuary

in my palm I held the split moment of a knotted storm

at the breast beating grief of thrown parched rice

that was only mine