The rooftop of my 1997 house
is my daily haunt in the dead of night.
It is a quotidian habit of my solitude
that embarks upon cries of foxes,
wayfaring on a euphonious breeze
that blows from wheezing trees.
Sometimes, bravery of facing life seems to be a pretence
and this daily part of my life in the rooftop
acts as the respite from weariness and the route to escape.
Occasionally, an owl sits in the roadside mahogany
shooting me with a cryptic jargon —
which I prefer to the day’s cacophony.
An unquenched thirst smiles
at the fierce warning of the clouds.
My thoughts have sucked up the veins
of innovation and reconstruction
leaving me to my bones and flesh.
A foolhardy life is still straining to walk free
from the wraps of cocoons interlaced by time
and take to instincts from the rooftop.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you too have a poem you’d like to submit, do mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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