Bitter are the joys that cure,
the feet crippling under burden whole.
It fills to brim and corrodes,
the vessel of stone that homeward lay.
Drowsy the tree-tops high,
yet the river flows down and deeper thin.
A mourning of a hundred beings,
climbing high on rocky pavement.
Yellow the flowers I dream,
a sorrow that ceases the unending spray.
Coffee trims on hillside bare,
a crow laying eggs of blue.
Blue, the sky now thrills & groans,
the impending dark that waits in awe.
It tears the dream I made of late,
my bedside clock that never rings.
Nights framing an eye that sees,
fraught with consciousness that hurts.
Hurts a mind which fathoms dark,
away from atolls and dwells afar.
Clearing a path of western drowse,
midst these palms of fallen dream.
Looking into a thicket pale,
my squint eye, and its aimless path.
***
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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