This morning we came upon how light wrote on itself in an old photograph. We called it the history of light.
my coming is Dad’s going from light,
as there was light only for one of us,
what happens to electrical engineers
with year old baby sharing brief light,
a light that is history of a day’s light,
light writing on itself in photograph.
In a history of sound we heard a woman’s voice in the street. From her conversation a scrap came our way about a man who had sold his charcoal iron worth Rs12000 for a mere Rs600. The woman raised her hands at the sky, her eyes in distress.
A watchman at the base of an apartment irons clothes to supplement his watchman’s salary. The coals are red and blazing, like the wife’s anger at a drunken watchman husband.
Watchman is fated to sell his charcoal iron. Watchman’s wife is fated to receive her nightly beatings from a drunk husband. We called it the history of sound.
How thought goes astray 