Leaning Forward
An old farmer,bent forward,
even his shadow
has grown old.
Upon his shoulder
lies
a lonely afternoon.
Quite a lot of time
has been spent
around rice
and ash gourds.
If I could rub away
the marks of age
from the body
of this lifetime
with an eraser,
would rebirth
then glitter
in my hands?
On the sky
of the night school
I have stuck
a handwritten moon
with chewing gum.
I could not become
a teacher of mathematics,
nor could I become
milk
in the breast
of a teenage girl.
Now I catwalk
on the runway
of a black hole,
sit in a restaurant
and eat chow mein
with chopsticks,
go to the PlayStation
and destroy submarines
with a joystick.
With every step,
an intoxicating
love
echoes.
In the water
of the ploughed field
is reflected
the sky,
torn apart
by the deep blade
of the plough.
Beside melancholy
walks
what I am searching for,
but I do not know
what it is.
It remains
within my being,
a fever
drawn out
from apples
and pears.
That fever,
I act out.
At dusk,
young women,
filled with evening,
light fires
with twigs and straw
on their moist bodies.
Beside them
wanders
the cat of the night.
A frog lies dead
on the road.
There is no memorial
for it.
Beside one tree,
another tree.
Moonlight
rests upon their heads.
All the truths
of life
gather
in the lolling,
lush heads
of rice.
Now, come,
let us draw
a door
upon the body
of age,
and exchange hands
with
the Brahminy kite.
Poetry by sinha murari
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Written on 2026-09-14 at 03:31
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