outside; scented wind
and the same stammering
outside me, you, are clamouring
calling the past, rummaging gossamer
dreams, in rain swept hills
punctuated by slithering silences
and- me, you, interlocutors
in theatre of change.
People do or do not change.
They want respite, cataclysms of desire.
They want love, then change
swirling in myths of artefacts in
They are dilettantes. They know some love,
some threads of hate, streaming down
rivers of bloodthirsty change.
Ananya S Guha