This night we keep awake in solidarity with the tiger skinned god who drank our poison in his blue throat. This night loudspeakers shall blare film songs and over cups of tea we keep awake while he freezes poison in his throat.
The winter breeze says Shiva Shiva and takes our leaves. The days will be long extensions of lazy afternoons.
Yesterday we were at the Royal tombs where our city’s sultans had slept for centuries. Their nobles moved their hands up and down in the air and their behinds retraced calling themselves no-things, no-things. The behinds are on their basalt too . Their gleaming behinds said no-things, no-things.