I ask that you be heard, tossed about ,dreamed of. It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence. Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.When we wake up we are gone as night precedes dawn .It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread. At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
You be heard, tossed about and dreamed of. It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence and an olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots and the six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home with black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about , dreamed of. It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are or on the dizzy peaks where everything is bound in its fuzzy snow ,at the mountain passes where vehicles pass oiled by hot tea or in the mist-filled airports where air crafts do not take off of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of. It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams ,in the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes and much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves, in lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces and lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about , dreamed of. It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them ,the children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows. I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees when it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west and children are still hitting balls visible in the green of the trees.