The guns are awaiting
An accurate moment
A chillness
Frozen the time
To make every target still
Rusty road
Smoky walls
Yellow-black auto rickshaws
Red buses, metallic cars
Trucks, an ancient palette of
Red, Yellow, green, violet, blue
Motor cycles and handcarts
Stench of urine
Pan Masala and beggars
Sharp edges of
Pouting structures
Busy moving eyes, legs, hands
Flabby arses
Doves scattering like an offbeat song
It’s time to fire
Bullets penetrating through
Hearts and disappearing into many dreams…
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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