The ghettos of my dreams,
Wear my eyes,
And cry.

Black and silent,
As the head of a stealthy monster,
The moments into sumptuous minutes:
Bloat.
It is Day Break.
I can hear the crows, caw.
Caw! Caw!

While the rooms are still asleep —
The walls are along with me: semi-awake.
By the door, the bell rings.
It is the same old man,
In the same old, dark shorts;
Nearer to being shirtless.

He is who; who cleans our cars.
It is these Day Breaks,
That climb like creepers
Upon his shrivelling back.
He, too, can hear crows pronounce.
In time to come, these fissured sounds
Will rest with him: phrase-less —
Upon his forgotten epitaph,
Not cawing—Caw! Caw!

‘Would it be too much,
To fully rise for a cup of tea?’
I ask myself.
By the speed of a viscount’s stallion:
My thoughts gallop.
With the tea cup beside me,
I am back in my world,
With a pen in my hand.

The crows try and try to:
Caw! Caw!
In my sphere of words,
Their noise is indistinguished.
At last!
No longer I hear the crows caw:
Caw! Caw!
Heartlessly, in my Brain.

Mumbai
1995

Geeta Chhabra