Every night around 2 a.m.
the ferry speaks of its presence.
Its grave horn—like the midnight call
of an old night guard—bold and loud.
A gaseous image of flowing waters
turns into solid imagery
inside the closed eyelids of those
imbibing the culture of idolising nights.
The faraway howling of stray dogs
never dilutes quietude.
They remain passively defiant.
Ruffled life, forming spheres
of languor, loosen up on the edges
and memories balance, stacking up
into a house of playing cards
falling down with each horn
and re-forming with a sigh.
In such darkness—punctuated by
the horns of the ferry—
flowers with ripped-off petals
cling to their stems in faith.
***
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 have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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