In absolute silence, the wind remains perched
On the ruins of an old city. Guardian owls hoot
The nights away and slay silent monsters
That lie in wait besides the doors of decay.
People tell wonderful tales of the day when
The disgust was melted and poured so it
Would coarse its way through the veins of the city
Marked by shrines and gardens, silence
Symbiotic with noise within.
Beneath the domes of soot, an underground
River flows, Its memory, dimmed by
Sounds of furnace blasts, an old essence
Once found in perfumier’s dungeon .
The walls of old houses plastered
With baked mud mixed with dried
Grass still bear the marks of children
Taken away by the shadows of night.
In the old gun makers quarters, the
Gun-powder still hangs in the air
Like the last mourner at an abandoned
funeral.
In the lane of metal polishers, half-burnished
Pans lay abandoned like widows of Vrindavan.
Besides the bridge of poetess, empty temples
Wail for sleeping Gods even as their doors
Remain locked with shiny paddocks.
In shop of the old pickle maker, the spices of loss
Mixed with bitterness of
Plague, were sold to highest bidder of sorrow.
In the by-lanes, discreet lovers remain untouched,
hands still held tight by shackles
of unconsummated lust.
The old mosque by the lake of insanity,
still remains, in absolute silence.
The wind perched on the ruins
of an old city.
On the ruins of an old city. Guardian owls hoot
The nights away and slay silent monsters
That lie in wait besides the doors of decay.
People tell wonderful tales of the day when
The disgust was melted and poured so it
Would coarse its way through the veins of the city
Marked by shrines and gardens, silence
Symbiotic with noise within.
Beneath the domes of soot, an underground
River flows, Its memory, dimmed by
Sounds of furnace blasts, an old essence
Once found in perfumier’s dungeon .
The walls of old houses plastered
With baked mud mixed with dried
Grass still bear the marks of children
Taken away by the shadows of night.
In the old gun makers quarters, the
Gun-powder still hangs in the air
Like the last mourner at an abandoned
funeral.
In the lane of metal polishers, half-burnished
Pans lay abandoned like widows of Vrindavan.
Besides the bridge of poetess, empty temples
Wail for sleeping Gods even as their doors
Remain locked with shiny paddocks.
In shop of the old pickle maker, the spices of loss
Mixed with bitterness of
Plague, were sold to highest bidder of sorrow.
In the by-lanes, discreet lovers remain untouched,
hands still held tight by shackles
of unconsummated lust.
The old mosque by the lake of insanity,
still remains, in absolute silence.
The wind perched on the ruins
of an old city.
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