In the wild throbbing sky,
(with its thousand metaphors)
i’m looking out for meteors –
and, the stars, it seems,
are no longer sufficient.
Once, i was a pampered child,
wasting wishes, never knowing,
what to long for. Meteors came,
and went, twitching for the end
of light, or glory; and waiting,
for the whispered prayers. And,
I stood, wishless, a tiny cynic,
a crazed agnostic, talking of
science and nature, of big
bangs and broken lives against
the fevered zeal of blind faith and fervid hope.
Now, I long for the absolutes,
but, I am lost with the absent
words, an infidel’s emptiness,
a void closing over voids. But for all I care, I refuse
to confine, or enshrine
this rising
this falling,
this state of
suspension
in four-letter words. I know
of the danger that movement
holds, of radiant Icarus dying with his
dreams alive, and Lucifer’s quick
descent, and fallen men and women
in the purgatory, waiting and waiting –
palpitating like widowed hearts for fates
tossed to them. And some bit of me
is also being tossed about but what
sustains me, like a banshee caress,
is the blanket of throbbing stars –
while I look out, for meteors,
rehearsing a little wish
and longing to make
a little magic
work for us.
Published with permission from “Touch”, Peacock Books.
This selection is curated by Yamini Krishnan.
