by Thoithoi O’Cottage

December, morning–
Mr. Everybody’s living room–
TV on: The desert Sands
Sands, sands all over and summer sun of June
Sands, sands everywhere and not a shade to rest in–
Languorous, growing dull–
And mind’s tongue rummaging like a rat

Sultry breast of the desert
A brown weather-worn rock– a crystal teardrop on the back–
Teardrops of roman Troilus
The dusty footprints gulp in Grecian war-camp,
Scarlet teardrops on the thirsty Skull a heavy dry log sheds–
And thunder-clatter that spouts echoes

echo and stream of water–
There is no ground to theorise an equation between them
We are a stream continuous, not echo with sharp angles;
It is not wrong to say man is not water molecule
But who can cut it if it is said:
Man and stream are one and the same–
Which molecule do you pick and swallow
From the glass of clean water?

Sands, sands all over and summer sun sharp
Scarce vegetation, lethargic–
Channel change: the old man’s axis
dark night, dark room,
a black man is musing:
long ago my sweetheart died, long ago
New guests come to this hospice
They are not she–
Yet, what’s their difference, difference from her?
Mind you, don’t they breathe my wife’s air?

Wet eyes cannot be seen in the dark.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s