Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 01, 2004

untitled cantos

Then onto a random train we transfer, early

off the Indore-Mizamuddin, to some other train

we transfer; smelling the dawn-light already ripe

with ropes of thick black oiled hair, braided and studded

with marigold and jasmine, fragrant in the depth

of summer sunlight: their hair, the cows, spice

and piss, the Vespa exhaust, the market calls,

C-Coffeecoffee, ch-ch-chaichaichai!

and not to mention, one's own humbling sweat.

All this occurs in the transfer: an overwhelming

stinking obtusity after the morning-silence of a train,

slow to wake, with the gentle sway

of brown feet off the ends of bunks.

But soon, we transfer to some other train,

and it is quiet again, just breathing, the warm

light from the windows dabbing at our half-shut eyes,

that light wind of journey, and in this reverie I hear her

soft voice like the cut of a knife, the singing woman

on some random train, after Indore-Mizimuddin,

her song is pregnant and hopeless, and it wakes me ubruptly

the sound of clay tea-cups shattering on clay ground

some distance back from the moving train.

Posted by Delire at April 1, 2004 11:56 PM
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