Tuesday, October 24, 2006

A quiet rustle

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shapes in spaces removed
essence of chisel on marble
often what is left broken
wasted at the feet of gold

the centre remains outside
as my love in three quick steps
pants for breath at the feet of gold

what one desires to be and what is
one amorphous stone
till one seeks a chisel
one fine cold winter night

a rickshaw pauses
near a chai shop
while cold fingers lit a cigarette
in celebration of the night

the days deeds are done
whispers have cut through the breath
hurried feet have rustled the leaves to a mocking laughter
a quiet march followed to my

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