Ramazan in the eyes of a four year old:
oozing jalebis, tangy samosas and chilled red blood,
that he likes and doesn’t.
Call of the muezzin; the call for lights off
and such sweetness are memories made of…
Shadows that lengthen.
The scenes fade away.
And all that remain are the spoils of that day.
Gathering dust, storm clouds flit to the north.
Barren rocks do not empty bellies fill but
will lightning leave its stormy drill?
The earth has treasures and so does the sky…
Leg shackled to the pole of power
will he look up or down?
That clot, that blot, that mortal wretch
who fifth day of loss with tearless eyes
faces the winds of change.
The lights go off in those selfless eyes
and he stands with shoulders bent.
The burden of a fiery spirit
chained in bliss of solitude
that has never led the feet astray.
He stays where chained,
he stays where put.
The rubber burns, the smoke rises,
the chains fall down,
Where is he?