Windows break free of the wavering hold
Of metal conversation; the sound
Allayed of empty glass begins its descent
To the stone pavement below. Outside,
Smells linger: of paper-borne ink and mud-brown sea
Translated into lungfuls of air. The prescient red
Of a lover’s forgotten dupatta, faithfully retrieved
By a beggar on the beach. Love, to him, is an enigma.
He hears the cries immutable of distant appeal, a thousand others,
Voiceless and yet louder than the cinch of money stolen
From the capital. The skies are quiet, still.
It all happens at once. The taste of disappeared tongues,
Of fevers maligned to death befriend; it makes
Him clutch the dupatta closer, if only for a moment feel
The moist imprint of a kiss. Here, it never rains.