In my one-windowed kitchen,
Two pots of rice sat
One of alloy and another of clay
With dry marigold garlands hung around their necks
They look like two deserted gods in an abandoned temple.
I open the window
To welcome migratory poems
Flown through the sky
Which has seen so much desolation
Hills and valley united in filling me with their passivity
In a stupor, in my unchanged sarong and shirt
The day ends and I am tired
I could not know when our first weapon was made
And tore the sky’s fabric above us
I could not know to which neighbour I lost my steel bowls
In the exchange of apathetic culinary dishes
I heard it rained in the hills
Here a river swallows the crematorium on its bank
With my fingers lingering with the scent of spices
I may write a few couplets
On giving up my lost bowls and my lost weapon.
