Blue curtains of smoke divide you from reality
which is but a nightmare where you’re chased
by crowds of people and living cars,
rickshaws, motors and mechanical elephants.
The dogs deservedly occupy the corners
on the shady side of the street.
You pass by them on legs of glass
and recognize their prophetic presence.
The language you hear is a language of pain.
You suffer it without knowing how to speak it.
Your language is its dialect and every cell
of your body is a syllable in its illegible dictionary.
In this unreal city you lie in a body
that by morning turns into a husk
where the monsoon is conceived, swelling –
a raindrop that learns how to set out on a campaign.