Paz1 min 315 1 min 315
In the quarter moon years,
I discovered Paz as a quartet,
Of life, pus, milk and death.
Littered between temple and morgue of everyday life,
His words lay as transparent autumn leaves;
Simmering the fragrance of Mexico and India-
The songs of Mayan Gods and Indian peers;
With stains of all that could be said, unsaid and said again,
Like life lived, unlived or to be lived…
On that, I walked barefoot;
And the colour of the blood changed.
His words of air-cotton and balmy earth,
Lingered in breaths;
And smeared the heart as a pagan ritual,
Of it’s own God and prophecies;
And yet temporal!
Words picked from gutter, grave and oven;
Marinated with eternal sun and stone,
Whose ink hit you as a wasp,
And calmed the fever gradually with more poison.
It was only when I got high on his cannabis,
Fences started pouting,
Lamp post started talking,
And benches whispered of all those souls-
That sat on it once.