In those days, you asked me, innocently, ‘why do you love me?’.
I answered with vague things. I spoke about our great, winding conversations, about your eagle’s wings, your sparrow’s heart, about your knife-like fingers, your face that floats as a lotus in water, about how your lap is the lap of the sea and your arms are cradles, and your breasts! your breasts!
You didn’t believe me. ‘why do you love me?’, you asked me, ‘why do you love me so much, with such strength and tenderness, as if without it, your whole world would fall apart? Aren’t there? Aren’t there other women with eagle’s wings? with sparrow’s heart? whose arms are cradles?’, you asked me again and again and again.
my love, may be I should have spoken about your neck that sparks off memories missed.
may be I should have spoken about your hair that smells of lovers dead.
may be I should have just taken your face in my palms, and answered you, once for all, with a deep, deep kiss.
I owe all of my poetry to the influence of Pablo Neruda. Reading him 10 years ago on the beaches of Goa, gave me the permission to be who I am and write what I feel. My poetry has never been the same after that. All that I write is an offering to Neruda.
Don’t look deep into my eyes, who knows what you find inside? Is it the dreams that I lovingly hide, or are some demons residing inside. Am too afraid to let you know, Even too scared to make the show.
I have just received a call from him, the unemployed educated youth, has come out of his house. He must be standing on a bus stop, in the busy hours of the Saturday evening. The whole world suffers from the