the train sends invitation
in the fresh afternoon
putting steps on the stair-case
of the old earthen house
remains incomplete
when the wrist-watch permits leave
the young power-tiller
with a magic in his pocket
parts hair repeatedly
an envelope
filled with the months of july
comes out of his palate
it wishes to take me also
to fly to the heathrow-airport
how many people do have such soap
to accept this monsoon
i’m nothing but a mere raft of the soil
those red and yellow arrow-marks
that control the traffic on the crossroads
i see only their secret blood-shed
and the mistakes in their pronunciation
