Back after a haitus of two months.
Tired of dragging this wretched thing,
this duty-bound life, through the dust-filled
busy streets of Kathmandu,
an exhausted wayfarer, I inhale
lungful of thick evening air,
order a weak ginger tea, and wait
for the nostalgia of the unknown to unfold.
An unsayable yearning clutches at my being:
stanzas—uninspired, unmelodious—in fragments
flit across the tea shack, chasing one another.
Now nothing but words—thrice removed
from reality—come out of an unfeeling heart.
I stop and dream of Munich or some other
unknown distant land where I’ve never been—
you stand at Marienplatz, coffee in one hand,
sunglasses in another, and with utter indiscretion
look at me. I look back, half afraid
of the burning curtains inside an empty bedroom.
August twenty-eighteen—your virtual profile now lies still,
dead upon your never-ending silence.
I stare at your picture and wait …
until a vulgar folk duet blasts
from the overhead speakers of this crowded bus,
displacing the monotony of my mental space
with its upbeat cadence.
Amid the low murmur of many mouths,
between falling asleep and waking up,
I see large chrysanthemums withering.
I lean over a poplar and watch the yellow field
swimmingly close in my face. I was unprepared
for this end, this separation.
Poetry by Yayāti
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Written on 2019-09-30 at 14:04
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